


Just Say You Want Me (Please Say You Need Me)

by buttcatcher



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Feral Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, I know there are a lot of witcher!Jaskier fics out there but I can't get this idea out of my head, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Slow Burn, So much angst, Witcher!Jaskier, jaskier and geralt finally come face to face!, playing fast and loose with canon, tw animal death, yennefer cares in her own way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:16:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 49,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24972178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttcatcher/pseuds/buttcatcher
Summary: Julian is born in a field of dandelions on the outskirts of Lettenhove, screaming his way into the world with lungs full of words and songs to be sung.Forty years later, Julian dies in a field of yellow weeds, silent as a corpse and covered in wounds both in flesh and soul. Laid to rest are his mistakes and regrets, years of living without a choice buried and put behind him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 195
Kudos: 626





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, I'm back with another story! Sorry it took so long to push this out; my dog is suffering from kidney failure. The vet visits and the whole situation in general has really gotten to me. He's on medication now and doing much better though!
> 
> This is gonna be a long slow burn fic. I have half of it typed out and a concrete plan for the rest, so I hope you enjoy :)

Julian is born in a field of dandelions.

The Pankratz family had been out foraging for enough plants and whatever else they could find to ensure no one went to sleep hungry that night. Given the recent dry spells and scarce vegetation, hunting for enough food to feed four hungry mouths required every family member to contribute. 

That of course meant even pregnant women weren’t exempt.

It’s when the sun is highest in the sky that she falls to the ground with a shriek, rolling herself onto her back and screaming for her children as her water breaks. The sun shines gentle rays of warmth over the lush dandelion field his mother chooses as her birthing bed, tiny yellow petals scrunching under her white knuckled hands as she pushes and screams and cries. 

The journey is long and taxing, though it is far from a new venture. They are too poor for the luxury of medicine to dull the agony of childbirth as Julian is brought into the world with lungs working around a deafening scream the second he is free from his mother’s womb, the sound akin to the noise a cat makes when doused with water. 

His mother, who swore he was to be her last, quickly hands him off to his older siblings without a second glance spared at the newborn, grimacing at his wailing shrieks as she wipes her bloody, dirtied hands over the dandelions cradling her back.

“Why is he so loud?” Gretka, his youngest sibling, asks as she throws her hands over her ears with a grimace, leaning away from her new baby brother even as Aegal, the oldest out of the three of them, pulls a face and quickly begins wiping off the after birth mess from Julian’s face, doing his best to ignore the screams and be gentle with his newborn brother. 

“Hell if I know,” their mother grunts, barely giving herself a moment’s rest before pushing herself up onto shaky legs and gathering the few berries she managed to pick before she had been forced to drop them in favor of giving birth. “Just shut him up. We can’t ‘ave him scaring away our dinner.”

*

The earliest memory Julian has is one that consists of his parents arguing.

Whatever it is they’re bickering about, their voices had raised in volume over the last few minutes until they were all but screaming at one another, their voices booming through the tiny shack they lived in and making Julian’s sensitive four year old ears ring. 

It isn’t disruptive enough that he feels the need to interrupt them. There is little he or his siblings can say to extinguish the fire that runs through their parents veins in times like these without risking turning that heat onto themselves. 

And besides; Julian has been on the receiving end of their ire far too many times to attempt to mediate.

Through his pounding headache and weak limbs, there isn’t much he can do to make them quiet down even if he begs. There is nothing to be done for his poor health that makes his lungs feel like rocks in his chest, for he and his siblings have tried everything within their young power to keep him breathing while their parents did nothing to help.

Julian rests just inside the door to the decrepit shack on the outskirts of town that his parents call their home. Splintered wood and the smell of rot permeate the air throughout the entire hut and the dirt that acts as their flooring isn’t the most comfortable to sleep on, but Julian tells himself he is content simply having his family with him.

At least he isn’t alone.

Aegal reminded him time and time again growing up that should he dare speak up against their parents, there is no doubt in his older brother’s mind that Julian will be left behind.

It’s a mantra he repeats in his head, over and over until he can almost drown out the sound of screaming and skin striking skin, his father’s voice yelping in pain from the back handed slap his mother no doubt bestowed him with.

Some days, days where he can barely manage to roll over onto his side by himself, his body so weak that simple tasks such as breathing become difficult, Julian dwells on the meaning of his brother’s words and turns to his only friend for comfort.

His friend is a mangy stray tabby cat who only creeps into his corner of the shack through the gaps in the rotting wood when his siblings and parents are gone for the day to forage, tempted into their home by small scraps of whatever Julian manages to squirrel away from his parents and siblings to give to her. She is the only one who doesn’t roll their eyes at him when his fever-addled warbling stops making sense, or when his coughing keeps everyone else up at night. Even Gretka, his poor sister who is only a few years older than him, quickly grows irritated with him and his waning health despite her insisting she doesn’t mind cleaning up after him when he loses what little they managed to scrounge up for breakfast in a bout of nausea.

She lays by his side as he hums songs to her, tries out different melodies and even a few words, more than happy with puzzling out her feedback by the way her tail swishes back and forth lazily behind her in contentment.

Julian loves the cat, whom he names Dandelion because of the time he caught her with dandelion petals stuck in her fur after a day filled with lazy cat naps in the fields, with every fibre of his being.

To him, her mangy and matted long fur is charming even as his hands get caught in it while petting her, and her half ear that obviously came from a tiff with another animal years ago gives her character. Deep gold eyes, pupils slitted in the way he assumes all felines must have, watch him as he whispers secrets to her as she eats scraps of berries and the occasional dead mouse she brings for herself. Her deep purr is a sound he looks forward to each and every day as soon as he is left alone in their crumbling home, lungs too weak to trail after his siblings to help provide for the family.

With Dandelion, Julian can forget about his body failing him and be happy.

*

Five moons pass during the summer of Julian’s fifth season cycle before he realizes Dandelion hasn’t come back. 

Given her instincts, Julian swiftly comes to the conclusion that the matronly tabby simply got caught up hunting for mice or other vermin in the woods and lost her way. That, or she had been visiting while Julian was asleep, the midday rays of sun filtering in through the cracked glass of the windowsill lulling him into a soft slumber. 

Julian tells himself he isn’t sad as Aegal and Gretka help him to the chunk of a fallen log in the main space of their home they use as a table, utensils whittled from pieces of bark placed in front of each member of the family just as his mother comes toddling into the hut with a dented pot steaming with something hot. 

The pot makes a distinct ‘tink’ noise as she sets it in the middle of the table. “Now, yer father’s gone and got us a treat. Bagged an animal prowlin’ around last night. He’s gone to market to see what else he can get his hands on.”

Gretka’s stomach audibly growls while Julian feels himself salivating as the scent of freshly cooked meat fills their sad cabin and brightens it with the promise of a full belly. 

Given the lack of weapons Aegal and their father own, meat is a rarity and a treat. The villagers about a half day’s walk North of them tend to over hunt the animals of the region, causing their numbers to dwindle to the point where they only manage to catch a deer once or twice a year, at most. Julian has heard his father and older brother gripe about that more than once, so he knows it’s not their fault when they come home empty handed.

Berries and other vegetation tend to make up their meals more often than not as consiquence. 

“What did he catch?” Aegal pipes up from where he’s seated beside Julian, mindfully keeping a hand on his young brother’s back to help him sit straight. “I didn’t see any tracks earlier.”

Their mother simply gives her three children a tight lipped smile, her knotted muddy brown locks falling over her shoulder in a clump. “That ain’t important. Don’t worry yourself about it, just eat.”

No one has to tell them twice. Aegal quickly scoops enough of the stew into three separate bowls for himself and his siblings, all of which quickly dig in. 

Not a word is said as everyone, including their mother, scarfs down the meal as though it is the last one they’ll ever have. Julian catches himself from moaning at the taste of meat, so seldom an option for them that the taste is still a novelty. In fact, when his crooked spoon scrapes the bottom of the wooden bowl in front of him, Julian finds himself wishing he could have a second helping when he hears his sister make a disgusted noise from where she sits across from Aegal. 

“Momma, what’s this?” Gretka asks as she pinches something in her bowl of stew and pulls it out to show the table, her fingertips stained in broth and a chunk of something dangling from her grasp.

Julian almost ignores her to focus on debating whether or not he could get away with licking whatever else he can out of his own bowl before a flash of muddied orange catches his attention from the corner of his eye. 

There, pinched between Gretka’s fingers, is a waterlogged tuft of familiar orange fur. 

Whatever his mother says by way of explanation doesn’t register in Julian’s mind. All noise around him fades out as though he’s in the throes of a fever once again as his mind makes the connection that has his stomach cramping and bile rising in his throat. Aegal and Gretka don’t see it coming when Julian hurriedly reaches across the table and slaps the bowls out of their hands, the remaining stew splashing to the ground and sinking into the dirt below them. The pot is next, his mother too stunned at his outburst to catch him in time, the remains of their meal pushed onto the earth and soiled. 

For a moment no one utters a sound. The room’s occupants simply stare wide eyed at Julian, whose frail body is shaking so badly in rage that his tiny fists tremble at his sides before the spell is broken as he falls to his knees and begins retching. 

_”YOU!_ ” Julian hears his mother shriek a handful of seconds before he feels himself being tugged upright by his hair, his scalp stinging just as badly as his eyes as he continues to retch and heave, spilling sour smelling sick down the front of his clothes. “You ungrateful, weak, _spoiled_ little boy!” 

Aegal, who usually runs to his siblings aid when their parents take their aggression out on them, remains seated with his gaze trained on the harsh bark of their table, unwilling to meet Julian’s eyes as their mother drags him kicking and screaming out of the house. 

*

A week after the stew incident, Julian is awoken in his corner of their shack in the middle of the night by the sensation of fingers running through his hair. 

Short clipped fingernails gently massage his scalp as whoever had taken vigil by his side continued brushing his sweaty bangs off his forehead, the rush of cool air against his heated skin an absolute blessing. In fact, Julian feels himself begin to nod off quickly at the unfamiliar gesture, ready to escape back into dreamland when he hears his brother stifle a sob beside him.

Ah. that makes sense. Aegal and Gretka were the only ones to ever treat him with such tender care, and the last Julian checked, his sister’s voice didn’t crack like she had swallowed several frogs. 

“Julian,” Aegal whispers as he continues stroking Julian’s hair away from his forehead and gingerly combing out knots in his short brown locks with shaking fingers. “Julian, I’m so sorry.”

That wakes Julian up. “Sorry?”

Aegal sniffles once again as he visibly tries to pull himself together before Julian turns around and catches sight of his red rimmed eyes and sore nose, a telltale sign the older boy had been crying for much longer than Julian had been awake.

Immediately, Julian doesn’t like whatever is causing his strong older brother to be so upset but is unable to voice his feelings when he feels himself being guided to rest his head on Aegal’s lap. 

“I’m sorry.” Aegal repeats quietly as Julian carefully rolls over so his neck isn’t twisted in a weird angle, unwilling to ruin the sudden heavy atmosphere around them. The rough texture of his brother’s worn burlap trousers is unpleasant against the sensitive skin of Julian’s cheek but the warmth that radiates from beneath it is more than enough to make up for the minor discomfort. The torn fabric smells of dandelions and dirt, of sweat and of family.

It’s a scent Julian knows very well.

“I don’t know what you’re sorry for,” Julian mumbles around a yawn as he rubs at sleep crusted eyes, unaware of the way Aegal gnaws his lip to keep from waking their parents. “But whatever it is, it’s okay. I forgive you.”

That’s evidently what finally breaks Aegal as he crouches over his little brother and sobs, the sound ugly and choked as he tries to keep from waking the rest of their family. It’s as disturbing as it is saddening, and Julian isn’t immune to the pain he sees in his brother’s quaking shoulders, so narrow yet the burden of the survival of their family is placed upon them without a second thought. 

Aegal’s pain brings tears to Julian’s eyes despite the confusion he feels. “Don’t cry,” He coos to his older brother as he raises a hand and cups his tear soaked cheek, rubbing away the droplets under his eyes with his thumb the same way Aegal would do to soothe him whenever he had a nightmare. “You’re too old to cry. I’m supposed to be the one who cries all the time!” 

Julian’s forced cheeriness only seems to drag Aegal down further into whatever pit of despair he had fallen into. Long, slender fingers reminiscent of spider legs gently cradle Julian’s face as his brother presses a lingering chaste kiss to his sweaty forehead, uncaring of how dirty Julian was from sweating out a fever in the dirt. “No matter what happens, Juli, you need to promise me something.”

Julian gives an earnest nod as Aegal sucks in a shuddering breath. “Don’t let others make decisions for you, Julian. Don’t let yourself be fooled into believing your fate is entirely up to destiny; that you have no say in it.”

Julian’s confusion must show on his face because his brother breathes a sigh against his sweaty forehead before pulling back and glancing out the broken window Julian favored sleeping under when his lungs ached and his body throbbed with dull pains. “What I’m saying is... there isn’t always a right or wrong answer. Sometimes… sometimes, you just have to choose the lesser evil.”

And with that, Aegal makes a move to gently extract himself from beneath Julian’s head but pauses when tiny, dirt covered hands anchor themselves in the fabric of his trousers. “I don’t really understand, but… can you stay with me until I fall asleep?”

A soft smile breaks through the misery on Aegal’s face at Julian’s plea, whispered in the dark of night like a secret. There is a heaviness to Aegal’s gentle eyes, a dullness in those doe brown irises that speaks of knowledge Julian is not privy to, nor does he care to be when the moon is at the highest point in the sky and sleep tugs at his consciousness. “Of course, Juli.”

*

The next morning Julian is awoken by a growled command from his mother and is yanked up and out into the daylight, away from his empty sleeping spot devoid of any traces of Aegal from the night before. The strength of the sun feels like thousands of needles burning his eyes as days of puny meals weaken his already ailing body further but Julian keeps his mouth shut. His mother’s grip on his wrist is too strong for him to break and even if that was somehow managed, where could he go? Aegal had ignored him until last night when he cried and apologized for something Julian didn’t get an explanation for and Gretka simply followed along with whatever their older brother was doing, so she had been doing much of the same, ignoring Julian when he cried and pleaded for her to fetch him some water, too beaten and broken to get up and fetch water from the stream behind their house himself. 

What was Aegal so upset about?

His mother gives a harsh pull on his arm when he trips over a rock in their path, the holes in the soles of his shoes causing pebbles to become lodged inside them, further scraping the bottoms of his feet. “You’re going to meet a friend.” His mother tells him as she pulls him past the field of dandelions that lay in front of their house right after the outcrop of trees that provide them shade in the summer months. 

“A friend?” Julian parrots in disbelief. 

Ever since Dandelion disappeared, there had been no one for Julian to confide in, no one to tell stories to. Gretka has a loud mouth and had tattled on him one too many times to be a trustworthy confidant, and Aegal was always too busy helping out their father or sharpening their few hunting weapons to pander to his childlike whims. He almost can’t believe his mother has finally decided to stop punishing him for ruining their meal and instead introduce him to someone he can call a friend.

His eagerness must show on his face, for his mother’s expression twists into one of disgust. It’s a look Julian has come to associate with his mother whenever she sees him. “Just keep yer mouth shut and let me do the talkin’.”

They walk for what feels like hours but is more likely only one until Julian’s mother stops them just outside the edge of the dandelion field and in front of a dirt road Julian has never seen before. 

There, at the opposite edge of the dirt road paved between dandelion fields, is a man.

He appears to be around the age of Julian’s father, all broad shoulders and lean limbs, though the deep scar across the man’s forehead is distinctive enough for Julian to know his father doesn’t have anything like that on his own skin. Even so, the clothing the strange man wears is almost eerily similar to their own torn rags, just without the holes and in colors much more rich than the moth bitten fabric they patched together from potato sacks and whatever other scraps of linen they came across.

Julian could have mistaken him for a wayward villager if not for the two large swords strapped across the man’s back.

“I brought’ em just like ye wanted.” His mother calls out to the man just as he takes a step forward, sunlight catching on his eyes just long enough to catch Julian’s attention. 

The color of them steals the breath from Julian’s lungs.

The man has eyes like Dandelion did.

Never before has Julian seen someone with eyes like that. He knows his own are a light blue similar to cornflowers, and his brother’s are a warm brown like their father’s. Gretka’s are more a mix of her siblings, a muddled blueish brown that Julian finds charming on his young sister. And, from the few other people he has seen in his long four years of life, Julian knows the man in front of them isn’t anything like the village people living North of them. 

Slit black pupils dance in a sea of gold, the unnatural light from them nearly glinting off the medallion hanging around the rough man’s neck.

That hunk of silver, too, reminds Julian of Dandelion. 

“I’ll give you one hundred crowns.” The rough cat eyed man grunts, giving Julian a quick once over that makes the boy's skin crawl in a way he recognizes as fear. What is this man talking about? Is he going to give their family money out of charity? The thought of his siblings not having to go hungry for at least a few days in their life has Julian beaming up at his mother even as she ignores him and tightens her ironclad grip on his wrist. 

“That’s not nearly enough.” 

“He is weak. I smell sickness in him. The Trials will likely not be kind to him, if he survives at all.”

“I don’t care. One hundred is not enough.”

The cat eyed man slides his gaze back to Julian for a moment before reaching behind himself to dig in one of his pockets. A clinking noise sounds from within the cloth bag the man pulls out and holds out to Julian’s mother, a lopsided grin pulling on the scars across his face and showcasing the sharp canines in the man’s mouth. “Fine. One fifty or I will search elsewhere. The war has left many orphaned children to choose from.”

The stranger barely has time to finish his sentence before Julian feels himself being pushed toward the golden eyed man, his mother firmly placing one hand between his shoulder blades and taking the offered bag with the other. She weighs the bag in her palm before tearing open the string tying it closed to rifle through the contents for a moment. Satisfied, she ignores Julian and gives the cat eyed man a grin full of missing teeth and cracked lips.

“Deal.”

*

Julian doesn’t like his new home.

The floors aren’t soft with grass and dirt. They’re cold under his feet and made from unforgiving slabs of stone, the temperature of them sending chills up and down his spine whenever he’s forced to wake and congregate with the other boys his age.

None of them are Aegal, with his soft words and gentle affections, and Julian has only seen one or two girls out of the forty or so other boys he’s forced to share a room with on a daily basis. He can only imagine the kind of fit Gretka would throw if she had to share with so many other children.

“Listen up.” Nazak, the man Julian remembers being the one to take him from his family, calls out into the courtyard of young children sniffling and huddling around each other for comfort. “You are all here for a reason. Whether your families didn't want you or you’re more physically capable of withstanding the mutations, it doesn’t matter. From here on out you will do as you are told.”

The clothing he wears is unlike anything Julian has seen before and is completely different to the outfit the man had worn when they were first introduced. Tight dark blue trousers hug the man’s legs and make them appear long and lean, while the belts around his waist boasting various bags give the illusion that his waist is trim and lithe. The boots appear to be made of a material more sturdy than anything Julian has ever seen. He wiggles his toes in his own shoes, taking note of the various holes in them. The vest - armor, he recalls it being named - covers Nazak’s chest and is held together with more straps and buckles down the front and sides.

The older man appears more elegantly put together than he had on the day of their first meeting, if a lot more terrifying now that he has an audience. 

The only thing that has stayed the same is the cat medallion resting astride the man’s breast. 

*

The ginger haired boy who cries and screams for his mother while he sleeps beside Julian at night is the first to leave their room and not return. 

While his outbursts during the night keep Julian and the others up more often than not, the eleven year old boy is kind to him, almost brotherly in his mannerisms in the way Aegal is. They would share meals with one another during the day and huddle close to one another during the night, soaking up each other’s body heat as stone cold floors suck the life from their weary bones. 

It’s around the second day after his friend’s departure that Julian learns what the golden eyed men are called.

Witchers.

Back home, his parents never mentioned anything about witchers. His brother and sister never said anything about yellow eyed men either, so Julian struggles to comprehend the fact that he is apparently destined to be made into one of them, one of the cat eyed men who wield two blades.

He is not the only one who knew nothing of witchers before arriving in the castle located somewhere in Ebbing. 

Many of the boys are just as lost as he is, and Julian takes solace in that fact. 

The same cannot be said for those other boys.

“That fuckin’ _arsehole,_ ” One boy spits vehemetly as their group hurriedly dresses in a rush to make it to breakfast before training is set to begin. “My ma’ done sold me to these pricks fer four cows. What kinda twisted game is this? Who sells their own kid?”

“Aw, shut up!” Another boy pipes up from where he’s fastening his trousers. “At least you had a mom for a bit! I stumbled upon this place while runnin’ from thieves and was taken without a second thought!”

The door creaks open as one of the older children sharing their room scoffs at them. “At least mine warned me about the children snatchers. My pa used to sing me to sleep with songs about witchers prowlin’ the woods in search of fresh meat. Good lot of luck that did me, though.”

*

“He’s dead.” A boy with short blonde hair announces that morning over breakfast. Julian pauses pushing around whatever concoction is on the plate in front of him to stare at the boy, taking in his bright green eyes and the spattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. It’s the boy who sleeps in the uncomfortable, creaky bed to Julian’s right in their group’s shared room. “I heard ‘em last night.”

“They said he’s dead?” Another boy, this one much older than Julian and the blond child, speaks up. 

The blonde boy - Faras, Julian remembers - nods his head and puts his fork down with a sigh. “Heard the masters talking about it. Said they mixed something up in the alchemical formula and it didn’t take well to him.”

“No way, he’s totally fine! That slippery bastard still owes me a sweet roll for pissin’ the bed a fortnight ago.” 

“Nuh uh, I heard ‘em say they had to ‘put him down’!”

“How do you know-”

Julian ignores the argument happening around the table as he picks up his plate and leaves the room, too sick to force food down his throat and too sore to have to inevitably throw it up when training commenced for the day. 

*

As the days wear on, less and less boys return to their joint bedchambers for the night. The absence of the other children becomes so apparent that seeing the empty beds and sudden space the remaining boys have in their bedchambers invokes a dread so deep in his bones, so powerful and mind consuming that Jaskier finds himself struggling to force his burning lungs to draw in air more often than not.

Julian can count the number of boys he hasn’t seen in weeks if he truly tries. He knows them all by name, determined to remember them even if they never meet again. Days turn into weeks and then into months, and by the time Julian has reached the age of twelve winters, he is taken from his bed and brought to a room filled with tables adorned with an alarming number of belts, obviously meant for holding the subject down, but what really makes his limbs freeze and lock up where he stands is the blood.

The cots, if they can even be called that, are caked in dried, dark blood. 

Echos of screams from rooms adjacent to this one ring in Julian’s ears as Nazak roughly coaxes him to lie down on the gurney and allow himself to be strapped in. The glowing eyes of the elder witchers simply watching the scene unfold in front of them invokes a burning sensation in Julian’s eyes and in his gut, fury at the fact they plan to watch him suffer and scream, and stinging betrayal at the knowledge that his parents had given him up to these monsters, these creatures who informed them of what was to happen to their youngest son.

His parents, who knew only three out of every ten boys survived what he is about to be subjected to against his will.

His parents, who were supposed to be his protectors. Who were supposed to love him the way he had loved Dandelion: fiercely and unconditionally.

His parents, who had sold him like cattle to a man planning to turn him into a killing machine.

“It ain’t so bad,” One of the elder witchers pipes up from where he has his back turned to Julian, various vials and bowls clinking together as he swiftly mixes something that fills the room with such a strong odor that Julian can barely keep his stomach from revolting. “The worst is the potion that gives you enhanced vision. _That_ one hurts like a bitch. After that, everything else sort of pales in comparison.”

They are clearly meant to be comforting words. And to this man, perhaps they are, but to Julian, they are solely confirmation that, should he survive this, he will become so different to the boy he is now that if he ever sees his parents or siblings again, they surely won’t recognize the monster he’s become. “I-I don’t want to,” Julian begs in increasing panic as his hands are bound and the witcher holding the potions he is to imbibe turns to face him, a glint of something like insanity sparkling in his eyes. 

“Oh, my sweet child… you have no choice. You will become more swift, more agile in all the ways a witcher is meant to be, but _better._ You will become strong, so strong that you will fell monsters several times your size. And, above all else, your emotions will be erased to make the Path easier. It is a trial every witcher of the School of the Cat goes through, and you, little one, are not an exception.”

As soon as the mixture is dumped into his eyes, Julian ceases processing the world around him.

*

The first contract Julian takes is a fairly simple one, all things considered.

It’s not his first time fighting a beast- there were plenty crawling around the outskirts of Stygga castle, more than enough monsters threatening their home to practice slaying to get the hang of it- but it is his first time feeling empathy for the creature he is paid to slay.

As far as contracts go, Julian knows this is one he shouldn’t have taken as his first one by himself. Maybe a bounty on a drowner’s head would have been a better idea, for the guilt that gnaws at his chest as he stares into the terrified eyes of a baby griffin huddled in the corner of its mother’s destroyed nest, clearly starving and too weak to fight.

As a witcher, Julian knows it’s his duty to walk the Path and take down monsters that threaten humanity.

As a man, Julian knows he can’t simply butcher an innocent creature no matter what the locals say. One cursory sniff of the nest is enough to prove the mother is lying dead somewhere close by, her scent long gone from the haphazardly assembled nest overlooking cliffs that might have served as a training place for the young creature to learn to fly. No griffin mother- especially a _new_ mother- would leave her newborn’s side willingly for so long.

Guilt wars with resignation until Jaskier almost deludes himself into thinking he’d downed a witcher potion with the dizzying effect his emotions are having on his body.

“Today just isn’t your day, is it?” He says sadly as the fledgling griffin chirps a stuttered squawk at him in what Julian assumes is meant to be threatening but just makes him vaguely nauseous.

Still, he has a job to do. The chances of this fledgling griffin finding a way to survive into adulthood is slim to none, but there is still a chance. Griffins don’t tend to go near people; especially _towns_ full of people, but given that he only had to ride for a fraction of the day to locate this nest…

The chances of the fledgling growing into adulthood and stumbling upon the village were too great to allow it to continue on its own. It would be a much crueler fate to leave it as it is- helpless and unable to fly. It’s as much a sitting duck as any other newborn no matter the species.

In the end, the decision is made for him when the griffin lunges toward him as though to attack. Sure, it’s a young griffin, but its size is still a bit larger than that of a full grown wolf. Julian swiftly lunges away from the sloppy attack and casts Axii without a second thought.

Bringing the head of the griffin to the man who posted the contract brings Julian no sense of accomplishment.

The coin he is given for the job burns like coal in his pockets.

*

The Path is long and full of blood.

Contract after poorly compensated contract, life blends into such a shitstorm throughout the decade that Julian doesn't even react to the spitting insults thrown at him as he passes through towns anymore, can’t even muster the energy to try and defend himself when he knows it won’t do him any good. Had he been his younger self, freshly mutated and full of righteous fury, he might have stopped to inform the villagers that he was no more a danger to them than the dirt under their feet.

But he is far from the green witcher he used to be, fresh on the road with goals in mind and a purpose beyond the witchering profession.

Time has taught Julian that humans are much more monstrous than half the beings he is paid to slaughter, and that belief continues to hold true with every act of atrocity he bears witness to. Humans treating each other like nothing more than cattle; men who beat their wives and children who are abandoned without a second thought only scratch the surface of the shit he’s seen. But no matter the reputation his kind have, no matter the threats of death and bodily harm thrown at him, assassination jobs are the only ones he refuses to take. 

It is that exact ideal that has him camping a half day’s ride away from some backwater village in Vizima, his horse Pegasus a warm presence at his back as he leans against her considerable bulk and sharpens his swords. Her white and brown dappled coat is rough with sweat and grime as he blinks away the glare of his campfire for the night, the scent unobtrusive and grounding in its familiarity. “Bet you’re happy we’re not in Velen anymore, huh?” Julian teases the mare as he slips his swords back into their sheathes and fully leans back against her where she’s laying beside him, her long legs tucked away in favor of resting her other side against a fallen log. 

She snorts at him before leaning down to nip at the ends of his hair. Julian lets her with a fond smile. “I know, I know. You hate that swampy shithole just as much as I do. I mean _really;_ how can a single place be filled with so much mud and misery? It’s completely befuddling.”

Pegasus makes a sound that leads Julian to believe she agrees with him.

“Right you are, my fair lady. No more Velen for us- at least for a while. Might head to White Orchard for a bit, maybe poke around there and see what contracts are posted. You’d enjoy that, wouldn't you? All those trees full of flowers and I know the apples there are your favorite.”

This time the mare doesn’t respond. Instead she rests her large head against the grass and blows out a deep breath through her nostrils, a clear sign she wishes to sleep instead of listen to Julian’s ramblings. The sight brings a smile to his face as he rests his head back against her spine and heaves a sigh of his own. 

“Alright, alright, I’ll let you sleep. Gotta get some rest if we’re going to make it to White Orchard.”

*

White Orchard is only a few days ride away when Julian hears it.

Pegasus is carrying him along a dirt path deep in the forest of whatever part of the Continent they’re in, content with the leisurely pace Julian has set for them when a sharp cry rings out from somewhere to their left. Had Julian not been in possession of enhanced senses, he surely would have missed it. Even Pegasus didn't react to the noise. 

It doesn't sound like a monster. Hell, it doesn’t sound like any animal Julian has ever heard before.

No; it sounds like something altogether more frightening.

A child.

Pegasus evidently picks up on his shift in mood as she breaks into a gallop in the direction without Julian having to do much more than tap her sides with his heels and turn her reins in the right direction. Her great lungs heave as she darts around fallen tree trunks and scattered roots until she skids to a stop at the edge of a village Julian has never been through before. The sign hanging above the gate on rusted chains says ‘Kerack’; a town Julian has never heard of in all his years wandering the Continent.

The community is gated with thick, heavy and old looking wooden doors, though they’re not locked and Julian doesn’t waste any time in dismounting and pushing them open to find a rather lackluster village made up of dilapidated shacks shoved into the small space. It’s certainly far from being anything like Novigrad, that’s for sure. The scent of death and sickness is still nauseatingly similar though, and it’s that smell that has Julian pushing his way into the tiny village only to find the place’s inhabitants forming a circle around something in the muddy town center, throwing insults and spitting curses at whatever- or _whoever_ \- is in the middle. 

That isn’t the unsettling part. The fact that nearly every villager is holding some kind of weapon makes the entire situation much more dire.

Public stonings were unfortunately not a rare occurrence, and neither were public hangings. This didn’t seem like either of the aforementioned punishments Julian had bore witness to in the past. There were no executioners reading out the wrongs the subject had committed and there were no stones being thrown.

Another cry rang out from whatever was in the center of the mob and pulled him out of his head. Julian found his feet carrying him forward on instinct, the hairs rising on the back of his neck and over his arms as the agony in that plea for help registered in his mind.

It’s a young boy of no more than seven years.

There’s a child curled up on the ground in the middle of the small circle of townsfolk in the center of town. Dirtied rags barely cover the young boy to protect his modesty and, if Julian’s nose is to be believed, there is not only dirt smeared onto the boy’s skin.

The combination of stale sweat, bodily fluids, blood, and _fear_ coats the back of his tongue like he had taken a bite out of a rotting fruit, unable to shake the taste with the cold rage steadily building in him at the blatant mistreatment of the boy. “What is going on here?” He demands as he roughly shoulders his way through the crowd until he’s crouched beside the helpless child. Long matted blonde hair hangs over the boy’s shoulders and is plastered to the side of his face by a substance Julian refuses to acknowledge.

“He’s cursed,” An older man with a gut that attests to how many ales he’s had in his lifetime bites out, clearly unafraid of the witcher that has just stepped between him and the child, though a good number of other villagers take a step back.

“‘S no use keepin’ him around here any longer. Whoreson’s only good for one thing, and he can’t even do it right!” Another woman yells, her words sounding off due to her various missing teeth. Julian bares his teeth at the implication and watches in mounting horror as eyes peek out of half shuttered windows, families obviously hiding in their homes around the town square, aware of what is transpiring yet not doing a thing to stop it.

“And what could this boy possibly have done? How is he so cursed that you can justify spitting on him and treating him this way?” Julian demands as he gathers the boy in his arms, uncaring of the mud that cakes his leather trousers.

“Doesn’t matter.” Another man pipes up as he steps forward with a rusty longsword in hand. “You have no right meddling in our affairs, witcher. Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of and leave us be.”

Had Julian not seen the terror in the boy’s hazel eyes that reminded him strongly of his sister Gretka so haunted already by what has been done to him, he might have heeded the crowd’s words and stayed out of it. Nazak would berate him for getting involved, would lash out at him for choosing to meddle in affairs that have nothing to do with monsters or money. 

That being said, Julian can’t ignore the silence of the medallion hanging around his neck. The words the villagers are saying are false; this boy isn’t cursed, hasn’t been afflicted with even a hint of magic.

This is simply just another case of a group of monsters picking a scapegoat for their problems, a victim to place their blame on to justify their misfortunes.

Briefly, a memory of a field full of dandelions and a cat eyed man flashes through his mind before the fury making his limbs tremble finally boils over and Julian finds himself making a choice.

One he prays is the right one.

“I won’t.” Julian says as the villagers collectively grip their weapons and close in on himself and the boy, their faces as hard as their wills to bring harm to the child behind Julian.

From there, the streets of Kerack run with blood.

Where men find the courage to challenge a witcher when those very same men cower at the sight of a single drowner, Julian doesn’t know, but as he cuts down the seventh assailant who makes a move at reaching the boy, he begins to realize this might not have been the right choice to make. 

Witchers are agile, infused with mutagens from the very same monsters they are created to fight. Julian is no exception- hells, he has been told he’s faster than any of his brothers by Nazak many times- but those abilities amount to exactly nothing when faced with an enraged mob of peasants with weapons and the desire for carnage. Numbers that overwhelm aren’t something Julian is used to dealing with, and when the first slash of a broadsword cuts through the light armor on his left shoulder, he hisses and retaliates only to receive a dagger to his lower stomach.

_”Kill him!”_ One villager shouts as three men charge Julian at once in an effort to overwhelm him, carelessly stepping over their fallen comrades to reach the bleeding witcher.

Agony clouds Julian’s mind in a fog of panic when he realizes there are still far too many villagers left standing and that his stomach wound is worse than he initially thought as his vision blurs. The three men are disposed of without grace as Julian comes to the startling realization that if he doesn’t get the child out of here, the both of them could well meet their end on the muddy streets of this backwater town. _”Run!”_ He shouts at the boy still seated in the mud behind him, furious when the child doesn’t move an inch at the command, simply watching the villagers rallying around him to take down the witcher. 

Julian watches the boy take in his surroundings with a mask of indifference so unlike the panic pleas for help that had led Julian here. There is no scent of panic coming off the boy now; no wide eyes or tears on his face now. 

Instead, cold hazel eyes stare at Julian as though he’s no more than an insect under the boy’s boot.

_”Monster!”_ The boy screeches, his face still a blank slate, drawing the attention of the families in their homes avoiding the commotion. “This monster is slaughtering us! He’s gone mad!”

The boy’s cry seems to rally the remaining villagers who previously decided to stay out of the fray, men and women alike emerging from their homes with all manner of weapons in hand, from frying pans to daggers to wooden bats. 

Nothing makes sense. Julian can barely hear his own thoughts over the war cries ringing in his ears and the rushing of blood in his veins, his body struggling to begin mending the wound in his stomach with the dagger still sticking out from his torso. 

Julian doesn’t get even a second to try and digest the abrupt turn of events before a woman steps into his line of sight from his left and takes a slash at his face with a small knife. The gushing wound in Julian’s stomach prevents him from dodging the blow and as a result, agony rips through his spine as the blade makes contact with the skin of his face and tears a gash across his mouth from the middle of his left cheek to the corner of his right jaw, flaying his lips in a way that would surely need stitches.

That specific pain is what forces Julian to make the decision to flee.

He would not be the first witcher to die at the hands of a human, much less a mob of them, but he does not wish for this shitty backwater hellhole to be his grave. 

Julian is barely able to dodge and sidestep his way out of the screaming army of villagers as they chase him to the village’s gates, parting around the stone faced boy like a river around a rock, some of them landing a few good hits with various weapons on his back and arms as Julian whistles for Pegasus, barely able to put enough space between himself and the raging humans to throw himself onto his steed’s back and push her around the village perimeter and make a run for it. 

Blood coats his light armor and Julian can feel himself fading quickly. He can practically hear Nazak berating him for not stocking up on potions before setting out for the day, not having anticipated anything like this happening when he hadn’t seen any sign of humanity for a good few days. 

Each strike of Pegasus’ hooves on the dirt path rattle the dagger sticking out of his stomach. Every second ticks by in agony as his mouth fills with blood and his sliced lips part weirdly around his tongue when he tries to avoid choking on his own blood. There is little he can do but place his trust in his horse and believe she will lead him where he needs to be.

It could have been minutes or hours, Julian honestly can’t tell, when Pegasus comes to a stop at a comely little hut at the edge of the wood. There is smoke billowing out of the chimney and a quaint garden sits in front of the home but Julian can’t bring himself to appreciate the scenery at the moment., can’t even take note of the patch of dandelions flanking the edge of the woods, the yellow weeds dull in the cover of night. 

He barely makes it off his horse without falling flat on his face before he’s collapsing at the entryway and retching up the blood that had been filling his mouth and sliding down his throat the entire way there, the sounds of the angry mob faint but still audible as they no doubt followed his horse’s hoofprints in the dirt. 

Pegasus throws her head from side to side in anxiety, the whites of her eyes showing and a cry about to be let out before the door swings open to reveal a woman in her early seventies, her pale face full of wrinkles and her emerald eyes wide in shock. _”Oh,”_ She breathes, frozen still for a moment in the entryway before she’s ushering Julian inside her hut in a hurry, her messy grey curls bouncing along with her movements as she flutters about, pushing Julian to lie down on a bed in the room right beside the door.

“Melitele above, what happened to you?” The old woman says in disbelief as she takes in the state Julian is in. “You look like you’ve coerced the entirety of Novigrad into battle!” 

Julian can’t help but bite back a cry as his lips threaten to quirk up at the statement only to spread fire through his face as the action pulls at the wound on his face. “Jus’ an entire village,” He hisses out. ‘Need ‘elp. I ‘ave money-”

“Shush, stop talking. Your face is a right sight.” Julian shuts his eyes as he hears a few bottles clanking and liquid sloshing around in their depths before he feels a feather light touch on his chin. “Open up and swallow this. It’ll dull the pain and put you to sleep so I can work on that dagger in your guts.”

The rim of the glass vial is cool against his swelling lips. “My ‘orse,” Julian croaks, blinking burning eyes at the healer in front of him, “Villagers’re gonna kill ‘er.”

Understanding dawns on the healers face for a split second before impatience takes over. “My home is enchanted. They won’t find it or anything else on my property no matter how hard they try. You came from Kerack, yes? They drove me out centuries ago with pitchforks and everything. Right arseholes they are.”

Gods, does Julian owe this woman if he makes it through this alive. 

“But enough of that,” The healer says in a stern tone as she upends the bitter potion into his mouth without warning before setting the vial to the side and gathering the items she needs to bring Julian back from the brink of death. “Honestly, I’m shocked you’re still conscious, though I suppose you witcher types are made of sturdier stuff.”

The potion is quick to take effect. Julian can barely catch the end of her words as his eyes close without his permission and he feels himself slip into unconsciousness with only soft humming to guide his way.

*

When he awakens four days later, Julian is hit with a wave of agony so strong that had he not been lying horizontally, he surely would have crumbled to his knees.

While it’s true witchers are rumored to not feel pain, to not have emotions, Julian knows it’s all hearsay. The sensation of his flesh tugging against thick stitches is a feeling he never could get used to despite gaining his fair share of scars. 

The gasp he sucks in through his nose at the pain must alert his savior, for the elderly woman who evidently nursed him back to health comes hobbling into the room with a cup of something hot in her hand. “Finally awake, are you?” She says with a smile as she sets a steaming mug of an herbal tea on the nightstand beside Julian’s bed. “Was starting to think you’d never wake up, though your wounds have healed nicely from that witcher healing of yours. Still, they need to remain clean and freshly bandaged for a while yet.”

Julian can’t bring himself to do much else but glance down at himself and take stock of the state he’s in. 

Stark white bandages wind around his chest and torso, some spilling onto his arms where knives or whatever else had caught him while retreating. The dagger that had been sticking out of his gut is gone, and though he can’t see his legs or hips under the dark brown blanket thrown over himself to keep his body warm during the night, Julian can hazard a guess as to what it looks like.

Those aren’t his main concern, however. His hand barely makes it halfway to his face before soft, weathered fingers wrap around his wrist and gently return his hand to the sheets. “Don’t touch it. I did the best I could but it’s going to scar even with your accelerated healing.”

Her words carry a heavy weight to them. Julian knows she isn’t speaking about the physical scar ruining his face.

She’s talking about the scar his actions have had on Kerack, on what consequences his choices will likely have on him.

Witchers from the School of the Cat already have a bad reputation as it is, the alchemical formula used to create them having unpredictable effects on their mental health. He doesn’t need the moniker of ‘Mad Cat’ following him around throughout the Continent as he tries to do what he has been created to do.

“You’d be well to lay low for a while. My informats tell me the boy you tried to save is spreading the word of what happened to other towns, convincing them you went mad and slaughtered the people of Kerack for selfish purposes.”

Julian’s eyes narrow at the memory of the boy he tried to save, how he went from defenseless and petrified to cold and calculated. What the woman is telling him doesn't make sense, but he can’t exactly refute her claims when he had seen for himself the strangeness surrounding the entire town. “Your informants?” He asks, wincing at the tugging of stitches across his lips.

A wide grin stretches the old healer’s lips as she takes a seat on the edge of the bed and waves a hand without breaking eye contact with him. Nothing happens for a few seconds. Then, Julian hears a scuttling noise as a tiny brown mouse darts out from one of the many shelves full of potions lining the walls and climbs over her lap to settle on her shoulders. “My informants.” She repeats.

Sorceresses aren’t something Julian has had the pleasure of meeting face to face before, though he doubts all are as kind as the one in front of him is. “You’re a sorceress.”

“Indeed.” 

“You’re not with the Lodge?”

The old sorceress scoffs. “Left them a long time ago, though they’re still searching for me, surely. Couldn’t stand all the politics and brow beating when I could be using my skills to help people, to _heal_ and make a difference in the world.” She explains. “The glamors were a pain in the arse, too. Who cares about appearances when wars are raging?”

She had a point, Julian muses. “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure of meeting such a beautiful sorceress such as yourself before. _Especially_ one who is kind enough to heal a wayward witcher instead of smite them on the spot.”

The sorceress opens her mouth to respond when she’s cut off by the mouse on her shoulder making a squeaking sound and the sorceress frowns. “Pima says the villagers are still looking for you. They’ve banded up with neighboring towns to form search parties.”

All at once, any semblance of comfort is stripped from Julian’s body and cold dread replaces it. 

The moment he leaves this property, he’ll be walking into a lynching. 

“I would offer you a place here with me, but I know you cannot simply abandon the Path.” The sorceress begins as she pushes herself up from the bed, smoothing her ordinary peasant skirts primly before hobbling out of the room and into the one adjacent to the one Julian is in. He hears her mumble a few curses under her breath before she finds what she’s looking for and comes back into the room holding something small in her outstretched palm. “This should allow you to become unrecognizable to those you wish to hide from.”

The second the sorceress places a thin black band in his hand, Julian feels his medallion begin to vibrate madly against his chest. “What is this?”

“It’s a glamor.” The sorceress tells him as she gathers his soiled clothes and gives them a grimace. “You won’t appear as a witcher to others, not even to others of your own kind. It’s a very, _very_ powerful glamor, but only works when you wear it.”

Julian stares dumbly at the ring in his hand and then back at the sorceress who tosses his destroyed witcher armor to the side and bends at the waist to rifle through a trunk at the foot of the bed, her old bones creaking when she straightens up and tosses him a pair of purple trousers and a lilac doublet, complete with a white chemise. “Your clothing, however, isn’t affected by the glamor. Wearing witcher gear will make you appear as a thief, or at the very least, out of your mind. These clothes belonged to another who unfortunately didn’t make it. I’m sure he would appreciate his clothing being put to good use. They should be about your size.”

There aren’t any flaws in her logic as far as Julian can tell, so he slips the ring onto his left middle finger and bites back a gasp at the tickling sensation that washes over him from head to toe. It’s… not exactly pleasant, but isn’t _unpleasant_ either. Certainly beats the agony of nearly getting stabbed to death by a mob, though. “Do I look any different?”

The sorceress regards him for a moment before setting his boots on the bed beside him, the sturdy material having been scrubbed clean of blood and filth. “You look human.”

And, well. He hasn’t heard _that_ in a very, very long time. Julian thinks, if he were able to, he would cry right about then. “I can’t pay for this. Why are you helping me?” Surely a glamor of this strength would cost half of the coin Julian has made in his entire career as a witcher, and he was not about to be indebted to a sorceress of all people, no matter how kind she is. Being tied to promises and debts doesn’t sit comfortably with him, his stomach rolling in unease at the very notion. 

If his face shows what he’s thinking, the sorceress doesn’t show it. Instead she offers him a subdued, sad little smile, so at odds with the bright grin she flashed him when her mouse made its appearance. “I once was unable to help a witcher when he needed me. I will not make that same mistake twice.”

Trust a sorceress hiding out in a magical hut at the edge of a forest to be cryptic. “Surely there is _something_ I can do for you. I can’t simply accept something of this magnitude without payment.”

The melancholy look on the sorceress's face melts into one of subdued resignation, as though Julian refusing to take her gift without payment was something she expected. “I don’t need your coin. But if you are persistent in demanding repayment, I ask of you this,” She pauses to take a deep breath, and Julian can’t help but notice the way she suddenly appears so much older, so much more weary in her lonely hut at the edge of a forest in the middle of nowhere. 

“I ask of you,” She continues after a pause, “When you meet a White Wolf with a bite as strong as his heart, please tell him I am sorry.”

And with that, the sorceress rips the blanket off his legs and nudges the pile of lilac clothing at him with an impatient look. “Now, please do get going. Your horse is scaring the life out of my chickens and my goats are similarly terrorized.”

*

Julian dies in a field of soft yellow, dandelions gently swaying in the breeze as he sheds everything tying him to his name and forges himself into someone new.

Someone unforgettable. Someone who is worthy of companionship. Someone who would not be pawned off by their own family for a mere handful of crowns.

That day, in a field of yellow dandelions bearing witness to his transformation, Jaskier is born.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leaving the Path behind isn’t nearly as hard as Jaskier feared it would be. 
> 
> For years, the way of the witcher had been beaten into him when he was at his best and drilled into him with twice the force when he was at his lowest. It’s a part of him he will never be able to be free of, that much Jaskier knows. The restlessness that settles deep in his bones eats at him as he sleeps and nags him when he’s awake, the voices suspiciously similar to that of his mother’s and Nazak’s. 
> 
> Neither are comforting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey sorry for the long wait, my dog's health has taken a turn for the worse and I've been trying to recoup the money I lost to vet bills by taking on more hours at work. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Leaving the Path behind isn’t nearly as hard as Jaskier feared it would be. 

For years, the way of the witcher had been beaten into him when he was at his best and drilled into him with twice the force when he was at his lowest. It’s a part of him he will never be able to be free of, that much Jaskier knows. The restlessness that settles deep in his bones eats at him as he sleeps and nags him when he’s awake, the voices suspiciously similar to that of his mother’s and Nazak’s. 

Neither are comforting.

For a while, wandering does him some good. The greenery and fresh air nature provides helps keep the urges and guilt away right up until it doesn’t. Not after more than two weeks wandering the Kaedweni forests, Jaskier becomes restless once again, the escape nature and the wilderness once offered not doing it for him anymore. 

So, with that, he sets out to Oxenfurt with a new plan in mind.

*

Jaskier is certain he’s the only witcher in existence to earn a degree in the Seven Liberal Arts from the University of Oxenfurt. Sure, it takes him a good amount of time undoing what damage his childhood had done to his ability to learn how to read and write, but within five years, he’s proud to be able to call himself a decorated scholar instead of a killing machine.

And with the debt incurred from his education being billed to a few very influential friends he’s made over the years, Jaskier is happy to say he’s constructed quite the life for himself here. 

Still, even with the distinguished title and all his worldly possessions resting in the one place he can truly call home on this Continent, something in his gut tells him this isn’t the life he is supposed to have.

The feelings don’t come from a place of malice. They’re an ache deep in his chest when he sees soldiers ride around the outskirts of Oxenfurt’s gates, the freedom they possess in being able to ride anywhere, do anything that pleases them. It’s an itch he can’t scratch when he sees peacocking bards in taverns late at night in Oxenfurt’s more seedy establishments, carefree and so alive with their music that Jaskier wonders if he’s finally figured out what jealousy feels like.

The love the bards have for their instruments is nothing new to Jaskier. It’s the same way he was about his swords back when being unarmed meant certain death - they’re an extension of himself more than anything else, not simply a tool used as a means to an end. Perhaps that’s why when he was told to choose an instrument to study during his lessons, he chose his voice instead of anything he could physically touch.

The surprise on his peers and lecturers faces when it turns out he can actually carry a tune was a major boost to his self esteem.

Seeing Valdo Marx seethe at his voice obviously being second best is an even greater reward.

With his swords stashed away in his tiny little cottage in Oxenfurt - courtesy of the university alumni who were moved by his unquenchable thirst for knowledge, promising him permanent residence there should he ever need it - Jaskier can’t say he feels any lighter. 

There aren’t any trophies hanging from Pegus’s saddlebags and there aren’t any poor townsfolk waiting for him to return from a hunt, their tears of relief for what he can do for them warring with their hatred of his kind, their disdain dragging him down until he can barely look them in the eye.

After all, it had never been the weight of the silver and steel against his back weighing him down. 

His swords are safe, his appearance is more human than it’s been ever since his mother sold him like a pig to slaughter, and the peasant militia isn’t going to be able to locate him any time soon. 

He should feel relieved. _Grateful,_ even, because the life of a wandering monster slayer is not what he would have chosen for himself had he been given the reins to his own life and not thrown it all away to destiny.

Yet life goes on.

Oxenfurt becomes as much a home as it does a cage in the six months that follow his graduation. It bends and allows him miniscule freedom while still refusing him the one thing he desires; he can go as far as the gates before someone who knows him beckons him over and the yearning to go back on the road is quelled for another day or two, pushed to the back of his mind. 

Then, on a night so abnormally cold for a spring evening no humans would be stupid enough to brave, Jaskier packs what little he has and takes off. 

Jaskier’s borrowed lilac outfit from the sorceress who saved him so long ago stays buried deep in his saddlebags as he leaves Oxenfurt and wanders around the Continent in search for something to focus on, something to _live_ for now that what he had spent most of his life being told was his duty had been stripped away. Gone are his well fitted leathers that broadcast what he is before townsfolk even catch a glimpse of the medallion. Instead he dresses himself in garments that could barely pass as clothing - Elihal, a unique individual Jaskier had befriended over the years, gifted him with a few magnificent pieces of clothing with colors so bright, Jaskier is mildly surprised when townspeople's eyes don’t burn when they gaze upon him.

They ask how he, a lowly traveling bard with nothing but a namesake is able to afford such silks and fineries. After all, how is he to make enough coin for durable trousers and doublets if he can’t hunt or labor away?

It’s a complicated situation, he knows.

At least Pegasus doesn’t seem to mind the lack of monsters or the stuffy stalls of Oxenfurt.

She minds it far less when he stumbles upon a particular handcrafted lute in a merchant square in Skellige sometime during his first year post Oxenfurt wandering without a purpose, instantly becoming enchanted by its smooth wood and delicate strings. The appearance of it is so different than the one his lecturers offered him back at university. The quality and beauty is like night and day; where the practice lute he was offered was drab and nothing special, this one is stunning in ways he never thought an instrument could be. His fingers itch to hold the instrument more than they ever itch to hold swords. The frankly painful price of said instrument is put on the back burner in Jaskier’s mind as he coughs up the rest of the hard earned coin he begged for the past few months for the lute, tweaking a string here and there as he wanders with Pegasus through various stalls, barely avoiding crashing into a herbalist with his gaze firmly plastered on his new purchase. 

Pegasus is his only supporter as they make their way out of the populated streets and back into the woods toward a cave Jaskier had found earlier, knowing full well he didn’t have the coin for a room to weather the cold night. His lithe fingers pluck a few morose chords on his new lute before he abandons it to ensure himself and his horse are safe for the night, covering them both with the sparse blankets he has.

The wind howls outside the mouth of the cave as Jaskier alternates between testing different strings on the lute and feeding Pegasus the last of their food, pressing his back against her warm side as she bears the brunt of the cold winds to keep him warm. 

There, in a snowy cave in the middle of a Skellige forest, Jaskier’s fingers pick up a hauntingly malduin rhythm that has Pegasus’s ears swiveling back and forth as she tries to pick out the sound of the instrument harmonizing with the howling winds outside.

Never before has Jaskier picked up a lute, let alone played an instrument. He had steadfastly refused to do so during his time as a student, content with only his voice. Yet he finds himself unable to put it down, to give his fingers a rest and sleep.

Jaskier finally finds his calling as the sun crests over snowy mountaintops and the sky is painted a vibrant hue of pink and purple.

*

Years go by in a blur of monotony blending in among the aftereffects of human cruelty. One day Jaskier is lounging around the busy streets of Toussaint busking for coin and the next, he’s hitched a ride with a traveling circus making their way uncomfortably close to Lettenhove.

Along the way, Jaskier stops running from the emotions he has tried so hard to avoid for so long and perfects his mask. He becomes what he knows Nazar and the other elder witchers feared he would become: the product of whatever alchemical formula had twisted the original blend into something far worse, amplifying his emotions to an almost painful degree rather than eradicating them entirely.

Other cats had been put to death for being deemed too emotional to be successfully stable witchers. On more than one occasion, Jaskier had been subjected to the echoes of their haunting wails as their emotions ate them from the inside out, burning them internally until they had to be put out of their misery. The screams plagued his nights until he learned to tune them out, to slip into unconsciousness before the nightly trials started.

In the cases where the boys sounded as though they were being torn limb from limb, he knows the elders thought of them as mercy kills. The boys would have led lives of agony had they been spared and there was never a way to reverse what the mutagens had done to their bodies, but even now, years later and halfway across the Continent, Jaskier can’t help but wonder if they had hidden their emotions away, tucked them so far down into themselves that even the elder witchers couldn’t tell they weren’t quite right… would they have survived?

The tumultuous rise and ebb of his own emotions are not easily smothered and left behind; not like his hard earned armor, but Jaskier knows it can be done.

His swords were easy to discard. He’d always been better with a rapier and sharp words than a broadsword anyway, though he can't bring himself to abandon his medallion, the one physical item he had bled for, had screamed for and been broken down and remade for. It was tethered to him and hadn't left his side even during his education. The medallion serves as a reminder of what he had been sold into and forced to become; a representation of what he had to turn into if he wanted to survive.

The cat pendant lies hidden in a secret compartment of his lute that Jaskier had commissioned a particularly skilled blacksmith in Velen to make, convincing the dwarf and his wife it was to keep his coin safe and away from grubby hands and greedy eyes.

Sometimes, if he holds his lute close to his chest to check for the hum of the medallion through the wood…

The townsfolk of whatever place he’s drifted to are none the wiser. 

*

It’s midway into spring on his fifth year of wandering aimlessly when he hears the news whispered through the lips of an unfortunately obtuse woman in the streets of Novigrad as he’s playing for coin. Word of Stygga castle falling and the slaughter of the witchers of the School of the Cat dwelling within buzzes through towns like wildfire, following him wherever he goes as the humans titter in excitement at the news that less monsters are prowling the roads. 

Jaskier feels nothing.

(He feels too much.)

*

Ten years after the fall of the School of the Cat, Jaskier ends up at a tavern in Posada.  
Jaskier hadn’t been able to get any gigs performing around the surrounding towns. Against the advice of the local apothecary, Posada became the next target in his quest to keep moving, keep _running_ so the emotions threatening to pull him under and smother him can’t keep up.

He’s always been rather talented at running away.

“Oh, I’m so glad I could just bring you all together like this!” Jaskier grumbles as the people of Posada throw loaves of stale bread at him in the wake of his impromptu performance. The torrential onslaught of baked goods gone bad only lasts a moment before the drunk patrons lose interest in his singing and turn their attention elsewhere.

When had humans become so ungrateful?

It seems like only yesterday that humans were begging witchers to save them, to help them get rid of monsters and save humanity- the ones brought over during the Conjunction of the Spheres and the ones that were entirely human made.

“Unbelievable.” He mutters under his breath as he kneels on the sticky wooden floor to squirrel away as much bread as his pants can hold. Pegasus’s saddlebags would carry whatever he could not, of course. 

Jaskier pointedly ignores a server girl openly gawking at him as he pays no mind to the state of the floor the bread had fallen on, intent on securing his slightly tarnished treasure that would have cost him coin he does not have otherwise.

Witcher mutations would cancel any adverse health effects caused by eating this, he’s sure.

Free food is free food no matter how stale or soiled, after all. Pegasus appreciates whatever he can give her, and it’s not like coin has been plentiful around these parts. Posada is just as gloomy as he’d been told it would be- not a single soul had tossed a coin to him during his performance, not even to humor him or to get him to stop singing. Just stale bread and a few pieces of sharp cutlery he was thankfully agile enough to avoid being hit by.

The sound of a chair scraping across wooden floors that probably haven’t seen a wash in decades catches his attention and Jaskier looks up from his tarnished bread to find the source of the noise, only for his eyes to lock onto a lonely figure seated alone at the back of the tavern.

Jaskier feels his heart skip a beat as he takes in the hulking form of what appears to be a white haired man lingering in the darker corner of the tavern, breath catching in his throat as he kneels there on the filthy floor, struck immobile from the sight before him.

The stranger isn’t like any man Jaskier has seen in all his years of traveling the Continent. He’s large; almost _too_ large, in fact, with shoulders broad enough to carry an entire infantry’s worth of weapons on them and the biceps to match. The man’s eyes are closed in a faux expression of concentration as he visibly tries to make himself appear as invisible as he can manage, and before Jaskier can think better of it, he’s pushing himself up off the floor and stealing a tankard of ale off the serving plate of the server girl who had been gawking at him earlier, not taking his eyes off the white haired man for a single second.

Life has taught him that if he is to get what he wants, he cannot lose sight of whatever it is he desires, whether it be a person, a beast, or an ideal. 

The closer he gets to the corner of the tavern, weaving seamlessly around stumbling patrons and irritated servers, the more details Jaskier can make out.

The man seated away from everyone else is as pale as death. 

His skin, almost translucent in its paleness, stretches over a defined jawline filled with stubble and a strong nose. White hair with hints of silver is pulled back out of his face and held in place with a dirty strap of leather, those pale locks reaching just below his shoulders, tangles visible in the dirty strands handing over the dark studded armor of his shoulders.

He looks dangerous. _Monstrous_ even, what with his appearance and the clearly unnatural air about him.

Jaskier has met many, many men in his days. Some good, some deplorable, and some downright confusing, but none of them had such an air of tension around them, as though simply having to exist in the same room as humans is an intense struggle. Jaskier wouldn't be surprised if the white haired man would snap those admittedly terrifying canines the moment his peace was disturbed, however fragile it may be.

Instinct tells Jaskier this isn’t someone he should be seeking out. A voice in his head that sounds eerily similar to Nazar screams at him that whoever this is, he’s dangerous.

Another voice in his head, this time one much younger and more full of life, tells him to not let anyone tell him what to believe or what to think. The voice sounds achingly earnest and similar to Aegal’s, and with the voice of his brother drowning out the persistent nagging of Nazar in his head, Jaskier makes a decision.

It’s been too long since Jaskier has had a challenge.

“I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood.”

It’s not his best line. Hardly makes the top twenty in fact. Yet when the mysterious white haired man in front of him opens his eyes to reveal familiar golden cats eyes beneath pale lashes, Jaskier feels his stomach plummet out his arse.

Fuck. 

How long has it been since he’s come face to face with another witcher?

It has to have been a good handful of years, at least. Aiden had to have been the last to see him, the younger witcher running into him during a nighttime performance at a low scale tavern in Oxenfurt and informing him of the three day slaughter of the School of the Cat, taking the time to note how the remaining ragtag witchers formed the Dyn Marv Caravan and were debasing themselves by becoming simple sellswords to whoever could pay. 

Aiden had eventually asked him why he abandoned the Path while they swapped stories over tankards of ale, how he could have renounced who he had been so easily. _”It’s all simple, really,”_ Jaskier had told him, _”Life on the Path is no life at all. It’s a death sentence. Forgive me if I choose this one thing for myself after a long life of others making decisions for me.”_

Ever since he’d laid down his swords and picked up the lute instead, preferring to sing of battles rather than participate in them, Jaskier had made sure to avoid any areas with known monster activity. Had been vigilant in his eavesdropping of nearby peasant’s conversations, eager to pick out which towns had contracts to offer and booking it in the opposite direction as fast as Pegasus could carry him. 

Now, for the first time in years, fleeing is the last thing on Jaskier’s mind.

“I’m here to drink alone.”

The deep, rumbling pitch of the witcher’s low voice sends goosebumps prickling over his arms in a wave of awe, the sensation tingling and igniting a warmth under his skin that has been absent since the day Jaskier renounced his profession.

Interesting. 

“Good. Yeah, good.” Jaskeir pauses to take in the other witcher’s attire as he leans against one of the tavern pillars, his eyes skirting over a broad armor clad chest before catching on the wolf medallion resting atop the man’s breast and the two swords propped up on the wall to the witcher’s right, caged off from the prying hands of would be thieves. “No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance except for you.”

The stranger continues to stare at him with a blank expression, and had it been anyone else in front of him, Jaskier would feel offended at their obvious unwillingness to converse.

Jaskier can’t really blame him for his unwillingness to engage in conversation. To the other witcher, he appears human; cornflower blue eyes and a face bereft of telltale scars, the glamor emanating from his ring leaving him his enhanced senses but altering his outward appearance so even the best witcher can’t tell he’s not human.

He appears as nothing more than a spry human.

The man in front of him is not a stranger, though. Yes, Jaskier may not know his name, but witchers are all brothers; all family of sorts, and immediately he feels more at ease around the monster hunter than he has felt in the company of others for what seems like years.

Those piercing eyes slowly blink at Jaskier as though him approaching a witcher for a casual chat makes the wolf think Jaskier has lost his marbles, and the simple action causes a thrill to run down his spine. “Come on, you don’t want to keep a man with… bread in his pants… waiting.” Jaskier finishes lamely as he casually slides himself into the seat across from the white haired witcher, feigning confidence in the way he knows rubs a lot of people the wrong way but needing the extra protection it provides to keep himself from revealing too much to this interesting man. 

When no response is forthcoming, Jaskier wriggles a bit in his seat despite himself, his royal blue doublet and trousers certainly picking up the leftover spilled ale and gods only know what else caked onto the wooden table and chairs.

He couldn’t care less about the fabric.

It truly has been too long since someone has intrigued him so. “Come on, you must have _some_ review for me. Three words or less!”

A few moments of tense silence pass between them before the white haired man opens his mouth and Jaskier catches sight of too sharp canines flashing in the sparse light fluttering in through the grimy window. “They don’t exist.”

Well. _That_ is not the response Jaskier had been expecting. “What don’t exist?”

“The creatures in your song.”

Before he can stop himself, Jaskier sits up straighter only to practically fold himself in half over the table, leaning in further to better study the mysterious stranger. “And how would you know?”

Silence is his only answer as the witcher stares at him for a moment before simply upending his coin purse onto the table in front of Jaskier, a lonely coin clanking onto the tabletop before he’s pushing himself out of his seat and reaching for his swords all in one slowly drawn out movement.

Almost as though he’s afraid to move too quickly and startle the strange bard who’s strutted over and initiated conversation.

Jaskier keeps his mouth shut as the other man gathers his things and stalks out of the tavern without another word. Misery follows him like a shroud in his wake, the loneliness Jaskier can smell surrounding the other man tugging at his heartstrings and resonating deep in his chest. 

The white haired witcher, whoever he is, has eyes just as lonely as Jaskier’s.

And, well, what else can he do but follow? Misery loves company, after all.

*

There’s talk of destiny, heroics and heartbreak. There’s also an astoundingly strong punch to his bollocks, but Jaskier takes that one in stride. 

The witcher hasn’t run him off yet and Jaskier plans to stick around for a while.

*

When attaching himself to the hip of the other witcher, Jaskier didn’t think it would entail being bound and beaten by a group of elves, Filavandrel be damned. Yes, he sympathizes with their plight and feels for them, he really does, but a lot of his sympathy flies out the window the second Toruviel beats them and another elf snaps his lute in half. 

He had gone hungry for weeks to be able to afford that lute, not to mention the medallion hidden in its depths. 

Just as he’s going to open his mouth to lash out at them, the anger burning through his veins so hotly that he’s shocked he hasn’t burned through the ropes holding himself and the other witcher hostage, the king of the elves engages in a tense argument with the man bound to his back without a spare glance at him.

Him, who appears as nothing but a simple human bard.

Filavandrel fixes the white haired witcher with a glare that reeks of a mixture of pain and sorrow. “Posada will learn that we’ve been stealing if we let you go. The humans will attack. Many will die on both sides.” Filavandrel spits at them, not once allowing his eyes to stray from the more dangerous out of the two bound men.

Or at least the one he perceives to be more dangerous.

Jaskier feels it the moment the other witcher sucks in a deep breath behind him, the white haired man’s back shifting against Jaskier’s own as his ribs accommodate the extra air in his lungs. “The lesser evil.”

If Jaskier thought he had anything to say earlier, it all but dies on his lips as the man he’s been following for at most a day and a half quotes a boy barely entering adulthood that Jaskeir remembers from his past so, so long ago, the words delivered to him through trembling lips and familiar watery cornflower blue eyes the night before he was sold for a handful of coins.

“No matter what you choose... “ The white haired witcher continues, “You’ll come out bloody and hating yourself. Trust me.”

And, by the gods above, Jaskier does.

How could he not when the witcher was the only one to offer him a coin when he was forced to resort to hoarding stale bread just to stay alive? How could he not when the witcher clearly used the last of his own money to offer a helping hand, whether he realized it or not?

Filavandrel evidently does not believe the larger man. “That’s the problem, witcher.” He begins in a solemn tone as he crouches to meet the tense man bound to Jaskier’s back at eye level. “I do not. For all I know, you could be the Mad Cat who slaughtered nearly the entirety of Kerack, never mind the atrocities you’ve committed in Blaviken. Allowing you to roam free could mean the decimation of the rest of the elves.”

Jaskier’s blood runs cold at the mention of that cursed town filled with monsters who paraded around as humans. Belatedly, he sends a silent ‘thank you’ to the sorceress who had gifted him his glamor, for it hides the erratic spikes in his scent that react to his chemically amplified moods, a surefire smell the other witcher would pick up on in a single sniff had he not been wearing the ring. 

Time seems to slow down as Jaskier focuses on breathing through the wave of panic that makes his limbs numb yet simultaneously cold, his hands trembling where they’re tied together behind himself and pushing into the other witcher’s back.

A back that has gone stiff as a board. 

“I know you have no reason to believe me,” The witcher denies, still in that infuriatingly calm, deep baritone voice of his, “But I am Geralt of Rivia. I know nothing about Kerack or whatever witcher caused that bloodshed. Blaviken is not what you believe it to have been either. Letting myself and the human go is in your best interests, for we pose no threat to any of you.”

Filavandrel does not look convinced, but the sylvan vouches for the white haired witcher. The words he says in ‘Geralt’s’ defense go in one ear and out the other for Jaskier, who is still trying to wrangle himself into some semblance of control as he fights back tears, gnawing at the toughened skin of the scar on his lip he still feels through the glamor to keep from making noise as he mentally separates himself from the voices speaking behind him. 

How could word have spread so far about what happened there? And more importantly, how could the information have gotten so twisted? Surely the boy had escaped, however cursed he turned out to be, so why do even the elves believe he went mad and spilled blood without reason?

Maybe one of the elves had been present during the slaughter, though that idea doesn’t sound quite right. Not only do elves despise humans; humans look down upon anything labeled as ‘other’ in an unfavorable light as well, whether they be adulturers who favor the same sex or halflings with mixed blood, so there was a very low chance an elf would have been loitering around in the village without being chased out. 

Jaskier finally manages to pull himself together just as Filavandrel is cutting himself and Geralt free, the ropes binding them to one another falling to the ground without a sound as Jaskier suddenly finds himself with an armful of the most beautiful lute he’d ever laid eyes on. 

It’s a beautiful piece of art. Dark brown wood stained in such a way that it reflects light like no other lute Jaskier has ever seen catches his eye, as do the small engravings of dandelions crawling along the neck and base of the instrument. There is no doubt in his mind that the elves have enchanted it somehow, for no musical instrument Jaskier has ever heard has come _close_ to the rich notes that ring through the air when he tunes it and tests a few strings.

No one says a word when he silently shoulders it and promptly collects the shattered remains of his first lute from the ground, breathing an apology to the instrument that had brought his aimless life so much happiness for so long. 

Not even the sylvan standing a mere arms width away catches him serrupideously pocket his medallion from the broken compartment on the back of his old lute, and for that, Jaskier silently thanks whatever deity could be watching over him.

*

It only takes them two weeks after being released by the elves to establish a rhythm with each other, and though the man- _Geralt,_ Jaskier reminds himself- still visibly does not appreciate having a bard follow along at his heels like a lost puppy, he’s given up trying to leave Jaskier at every turn, which the bard greatly appreciates.

Despite the ache in his chest when the other witcher spurs his mare to ride harder around sharp bends on the path, leaving himself and Pegasus in the dust as though he’s nothing memorable, nothing worth keeping around, Jaskier always finds Geralt again. 

The scent of misery is hard to ignore when the only other things around them are the rich greens of the forest and the little critters that dwell within.

And, well. Jaskier has had much too long to get used to the scent of his own misery to mistake it for someone else’s.

Even so, Jaskier always takes the initiative when it becomes apparent Geralt is reaching the end of his rope with the bard. Whether the other man desires solitude or space to think by himself, Jaskier doesn't know, but he easily pulls back on Pegasus’s reins and allows her gait to slow down so Roach and her rider can put some space between themselves and their traveling companion no matter how much he despises every inch separating them. 

And, when Geralt is ready for company - or at least as ready as the grumpy man can get - Jaskier pushes Pegasus into a trot beside Roach and beams at Geralt in a way he knows ruffles the other’s feathers even if he won’t show it outwardly. “You know,” Jaskier begins, careful to keep his lute from bumping against Roach’s side where it hangs on Pegasus’s saddlebags. “You’re quite a brooder. Do you know you brood? I mean, it works for your whole,” Jaskier waves a lazy hand in Geralt’s general direction, “ _mysterious_ vibe, but you don’t have to do that around me.”

Roach lets out a huff through her nose at that, which, _rude._ “Why are you still here?” Geralt deadpans in reply, those catlike eyes not straying from the dirt path in front of them for even a second. 

It’s not the answer Jaskier was fishing for but he’ll take it. It beats monosyllabic answers any day. “Why, do you want me to leave?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, that’s not true. I can see it in your face; you love being around me.”

Geralt doesn’t bother answering him this time, instead letting his drawn out sigh tell Jaskier all he needs to know. 

The silence doesn't last for more than a few minutes. “So,” Jaskier starts again, feigning obliviousness to the way Geralt’s brows furrow and a particularly nasty looking scowl comes to rest on his pale features. “It’s been quite a while since I’ve traveled with someone other than my horse. Where are we heading to? I don’t particularly care where we go but if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather like to avoid Toussaint for a while. Last time didn’t go over so well and I would greatly prefer not returning for at least a few seasons.”

Pegasus side steps to avoid a pothole in the road and Jaskier nearly bumps his shoulder into Geralt’s with how close their horses are to each other on the narrow path. Jaskier scrambles to hide his blunder by stretching in his saddle, his arms reaching over his head and his throat making a loud pleased noise as his joints pop. 

“Hmm.” Geralt says dismissively. 

“Oh, I knew you wanted to hear the story!” Jaskier crows, delighting in the way Geralt’s shoulders sag in exasperation but the man still doesn't force Jaskier to leave. 

He knows Geralt could simply cast Axii on him to force him to leave the witcher’s presence. Though he himself doesn't particularly feel right using it outside of combat, Jaskier knows it’s a weapon in Geralt’s arsenal if he ever wanted to truly be left alone. 

Not that it would work on Jaskier, but the point still stands. 

“I don’t.” Geralt denies.

“Nonsense. I know a fellow gossiper when I see one. Alright, so to set the scene. I was walking along the edge of Beauclair Port early one fine spring morning when the most lovely lady caught my eye. I walked up to her and initiated conversation as I am wont to do with comely ladies such as herself when I noticed she had this odd look in her eyes.”

“Bard.” Geralt warns as he coaxes Roach to take a sharp left off the path they had been following, leading her into the woods along an even narrower trail. His scent does a weird thing Jaskier hasn’t noticed before - the tang of misery is still strong, but among it there’s a new smell to decipher. It’s faint, nearly imperceivable, but Jaskier catches onto it. “I don’t care about your conquests.”

“She seemed a bit out of place, being so finely dressed at such an early hour,” Jaskier continues as though Geralt hasn’t spoken, cataloging the scent in his mind to analyze later, “So I asked her what she was doing at the port before the sun even blessed the sky with its light. She told me she had heard singing coming from the ocean. Not just _any_ kind of singing, though. It entranced her; I could see the way her eyes clouded over like she wasn’t in control of herself as she tried to move into the water.”

Geralt’s shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly as Jaskier watches him make the connection, that unpleasant hint of acidity in his scent disappearing. 

It’s oddly refreshing to see how Geralt reacts to things. Where Jaskier is fire and burns so hotly with the things he feels, Geralt is like a particularly thick iceberg in the waters of Skellige - slow to warm up and steady as anything. Had Jaskier not been in possession of a witcher’s sense of smell, he knows he would have a far more difficult time picking out the other man’s emotions. Geralt being such an enigma more than makes letting his mouth run worth it just to pull reactions out of the larger witcher. 

“I had to hold her down to keep her from walking to her death. Not many aside from sailors truly believe the power a siren holds over its prey. It really was a shame her brothers came after her once they noticed she wasn’t in her bed and caught me holding her down and got the wrong idea. How was I to know she was royalty and betrothed?”

“A siren,” Geralt says after a moment, tossing a guarded look over his shoulder at Jaskier, “How do you know it was a siren? It could have been a laima or even an ekhidna.”

Jaskier makes a show of appearing surprised, then offended. “Sirens are the ones with the wing things that pop out of the ocean and lure men to their death, correct? I’ve seen one while on a boat headed to Skellige. The captain of the ship told me what it was when we heard it singing.”

If possible, Geralt appears even more confused. “You weren’t affected by its song.”

Jaskier offers the white haired man a playful shrug in response. “What can I say? Sometimes ladies just don’t do it for me. Or, well, lady-looking things in this case, I suppose.”

However Geralt chooses to interpret his words, Jaskeir doesn’t particularly care. There is a much more pressing concern at the moment- Geralt’s eyebrows are doing the most intriguing thing as the white haired man slowly pieces together what he wants to say. Jaskier wipes his sweaty hands on his deep blue doublet and matching trousers just to give his hands something to do while he waits for Geralt’s words with baited breath.

“Preferences don’t matter when it comes to sirens,” Geralt eventually says, voice monotone as though he’s reading straight from a bestiary rather than reciting something from memory. “They can alter their voices to ensure their prey finds them irresistible. Part of why they’re so dangerous.”

“Dangerously _off tune,_ if you ask me.” Jaskier snarks under his breath as he allows silence to settle between them, content to soak in the view as they ride through the afternoon and into the early evening. Brightly colored flowers and weeds litter pastures hidden between thick trees on either side of the path by the time the sun is close to setting, adding splashes of color to their journey in a way Jaskier finds himself appreciating.

Wolfsbane rustles softly in the wind as they come upon a thicker part of the forest, the once sparse trees now thick and covering the sun’s last rays under their canopy. Arenaria flowers rustle as Jaskier leads Pegasus closer to the edge of the dirt path in order to reach out of her saddle and grab a wayward Hellebore flower before joining Geralt until he’s riding side by side with the other man. 

“Picking flowers?” Geralt asks in an uninterested tone.

“Yes.” Jaskier sniffs as he shoves the Hellebore flower into the satchel on Roach’s pack that he knows Geralt uses to store herbs and potions, making sure to carefully tuck the flower against one of the vials in the pack to keep it safe. “I’ve been told Hellebore helps with insomnia. Melitele knows I’ll need it later when you start snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”

They bicker back and forth until the sun goes down enough that Geralt determines it too dark to continue to travel and leads Jaskier off the path and into the woods a ways away, close enough to be able to find the trail again in the morning but not close enough to entice passing thieves to want to try their luck. Jaskier can certainly ride for much longer, though the thought of missing a dip in the road and risking twisting one of Pegasus’s or Roach’s legs keeps him from arguing with the witcher. 

Said witcher who is currently pulling back branches as they ride into a clearing, only letting said branches go when Jaskier comes up behind him to follow. Getting smacked in the face with some of nature’s most rough bark isn’t appreciated, of course, but the hint of amusement tinging Geralt’s normal leather and horse scent has Jaskier biting his lip and holding back the screech his throat begs him to let out. 

“That’s so rude.” Jaskier says instead.

Geralt doesn’t spare him a glance as he brings Roach into the center of the small clearing and swiftly dismounts, allowing the mare to wander off toward the treeline in search of tasty grass to munch on. 

“Really,” Jaskier huffs as he brushes leaves and lord knows what else from his hair. “I could have died. What if one of those branches had a poisonous spider hiding in its leaves?”

Geralt doesn’t respond this time, his mind hyper focused on setting up their camp for the night. Jaskier is almost tempted to stay astride Pegasus and simply watch the wolf prepare his bedroll and start building a halfway decent fire when Pegasus decides she wants some of the grass Roach is munching on and begins to wiggle in an effort to force him off her back.

Geralt doesn't take his eyes off the pile of sticks he’s amassed as he casts igni to set them aflame. “If you fall off your horse and land on your head I’m leaving you here when morning comes.”

“Well that’s just uncalled for. Is that any way to treat the bard who’s about to dedicate his life to making you famous?”

“If making me famous means I have to listen to more of your blabbering I’d rather fall on my own sword.”

Jaskier makes an offended gasp as he hurriedly dismounts Pegasus, nearly getting his foot caught in one of her stirrups. She doesn’t care about his near death experience, the traitor, as she hurriedly leaves him behind to go join Roach. “I am a fucking delight to be around and I will not tolerate this bullshit.”

“Then leave.”

The tone in which Geralt demands he leave is rough, gravelly in all the ways he knows the other’s normal voice simply is, yet there’s something underneath the words he’s saying that he’s not putting a voice to. 

It’s almost as though Geralt is purposefully trying to push Jaskier away, and he will not stand for that. “If I leave now, who will serenade you to sleep tonight?”

Geralt simply ignores him after that, each of them falling into their own routines as they lay out their bedrolls and bring out the dried fruits and nuts Jaskier had swiped earlier in the day from a traveling merchant. The fire casts them in a soft orange glow as Jaskier finishes off his handful of nuts and stretches out on his scratchy bedroll, wiggling a bit until there aren’t any rocks digging into his backside. 

Darkness fully descends upon them as nighttime insects begin their songs, rustling leaves being tossed around by gentle winds adding to the sounds of nature as Jaskier unwinds and casts a glance over to Geralt to see the other witcher sitting cross legged on his own bedroll, hard at work sharpening his swords. 

The rhythmic sound of the whetstone being dragged against silver grates on Jaskier’s sensitive ears but he says nothing about the achingly familiar noise. 

If he closes his eyes and thinks hard enough, it’s almost as though he can feel the weight of the sword and whetstone in his own hands. 

“Back when we had our asses kicked by a ragged band of elves,” Jaskier speaks up under the cover of night, his voice purposefully light and barely above a whisper. The darkness surrounding them is just a placebo; he knows without a doubt Geralt can see just as fine as any other witcher, and Jaskier is careful to avoid meeting his eyes head on to keep up the facade of being a normal human bard. “Filavandrel mentioned something about a Mad Cat.”

Geralt’s cat eyes catch the light given off by their small campfire and glow in the way a predator’s might, the golden hue of them achingly familiar and yet so, so different. “Hmm.”

Jaskier blows out an obnoxious raspberry at Geralt’s lackluster response. “Are you sure your calling is this witchering business? I truly believe you missed your chance at becoming a poet. Your way with words is… astounding, at best.”

Jaskier turns his head back to the night sky when Geralt doesn’t rise to the bait. A momentary shuffle of fabric against a bedroll sounds from Jaskier’s left as Geralt presumably sets his swords back into their scabbards and turns to face the bard, though the blue eyed man doesn’t turn his head to double check. “A mad cat,” Geralt begins, voice soft and barely audible amongst the noise of the forest creatures around them. “It’s true the School of the Cat is known for… less than savory contracts involving the human variety. That cannot be denied. However, humans tend to twist the truth of what they’ve seen and experienced into something they can live with. Something they can place blame on to relieve themselves of guilt and accountability.”

There isn’t much Jaskier could say to that.

The tone of Geralt’s voice screams of old wounds barely scabbed over. One wrong move and Jaskier knows he could tear those wounds wide open once more, rip the scab off and dig his fingers deeper into the wound until it bleeds for years to come.

He could do all this, yet he would sooner jump into bed with Valdo Marx than hurt Geralt, and that is saying something. 

“Blaviken?” Jaskier whispers. The tense silence that hangs over their campsite tells Jaskier all he needs to know. The misery and pain he can smell wafting from Geralt like the man was directly under his nose quickly becomes too much for the bard to take. 

Geralt was a brooding enigma on the best of days. Adding to his already heartwrenching scent just made Jaskier want to cry. 

“I don’t know what happened there,” Jaskier begins in a more jovial tone, forcing a veil of levity into his voice, “but I can vouch for you. I know what kind of man you are. You're proud, resourceful, and _honest._ Painfully so, sometimes, if I’m being truthful. Have you ever heard of a white lie, Geralt? You know, the ones meant to spare feelings and keep us from getting kicked out of taverns when the owner asks if their food is bad?”

Jaskier hears Geralt grunt as he lays down on his bedroll, his hands clasped over that great barrel chest of his. The sounds of nature drown out the sound of blood rushing in Jaskier’s ears in nervousness as he waits for the witcher to respond while knowing full well the other man is just as likely to get naked and dance around the campfire than give him a straight answer.

Perhaps Jaskier just hasn’t earned the other man’s trust yet. They _have_ only known one another for a very short amount of time where witcher lifespans were concerned after all, and Jaskier knows Geralt doesn’t appreciate the song he wrote about the White Wolf, either.

And what a tragedy that is. Toss a Coin is the best song he’s ever heard, thank you very much.

Still, after spending a great amount of time convincing himself it’s not fair to ask such probing questions to a man who barely speaks more than one word answers, Jaskier purses his lips and closes his eyes, ready to drift off into sleep and let their conversation go for the time being.

“... You’ve only known me for a few weeks.”

Jaskier’s eyes shoot open when he hears Geralt’s sandpaper over gravel voice whisper through the breeze, the insecurity drenching the words of the proudest and most honest man Jaskier has ever had the pleasure of knowing cutting deep. “Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, turning his head to meet those otherworldly eyes, “That may be true, but I… I don’t know why, but it feels as though I’ve known you for a lifetime.”

And at that, Geralt remains silent until Jaskier can’t keep his eyes open any longer and allows sleep to take over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think :) Have an awesome day!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before Jaskier knows it, spring blends into summer in a haze of contracts and avoiding Roach’s nipping teeth. Slowly but surely, Jaskier is able to earn his keep by playing for their food when money is short and winning a roof over their heads in taverns.
> 
> And in that short span of time spent with Geralt, Jaskier learns many useful things. 
> 
> Things he had never bothered to pay attention to during his days of wandering the Path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! My job is considered essential and a lot of people have been out of work so we're all doing the work of 3 people and I've been exhausted lol. I hope you enjoy this chapter! :)

Before Jaskier knows it, spring blends into summer in a haze of contracts and avoiding Roach’s nipping teeth. Slowly but surely, Jaskier is able to earn his keep by playing for their food when money is short and winning a roof over their heads in taverns.

And in that short span of time spent with Geralt, Jaskier learns many useful things. 

Things he had never bothered to pay attention to during his days of wandering the Path. 

Geralt’s odd habits become amusing to Jaskier. Endearing even, though the bard suspects the witcher doesn’t realize what he’s doing when he stokes their campfire and nonchalantly tosses in a handful of Lavender Jaskier had picked along their journey that day into the flames to ward off mosquitos while they sleep under the stars just because Jaskier complained about the bugs hours earlier. Or when Geralt seems more alert when Jaskier is riding with him as opposed to hanging around whatever town they find themselves in while waiting for the witcher to come back from a hunt, always on the lookout for strange noises or smells or signs of trouble when the bard is with him.

Having someone care for him the way Geralt does, albeit in his own stilted way, stokes a warm fire in Jaskier’s chest, satisfaction and adoration spreading their way through his veins until he swears if he were to fall off a cliff on a hunt gone wrong, he would land on his feet without a scratch simply because of the monumental fact that Geralt _cares_ about him.

There are other nuances between them that Jaskier picks up on as well.

Like the fact that Geralt speaks with his horse as if she were a human, doting on her hand and foot while wearing the same sour puss Jaskier is beginning to suspect is the man’s default expression. He notices how, when returning to a contract issuer with a trophy of whatever manner of beast he’d managed to kill, the pinched expression Jaskier can see flit across Geralt’s face just quickly enough to be easily missed if one doesn’t know what to look for when he takes in the poor state of whatever family issued the contract. 

The children, if there are any involved, always seem to resonate with Geralt the most.

Jaskier pretends not to notice Geralt take the coin promised to him and hide it in a drawer on the way out in full view of the starving children he’d saved from a particularly vengeful noonwraith, clearly concluding the family needs the money much more than he does.

When Jaskier tries to bring up how good of a man Geralt is, the witcher snaps at him to, in no uncertain terms, shut up.

Whoever started the rumor that witchers don’t have feelings can rot in a pit of drowners for all Jaskier cares. Every instance of people stiffing them for the job Geralt’s put his life on the line to do simply fuels the fires of Jaskier’s imagination, working overtime to come up with songs and poems that bolster the White Wolf’s reputation.

Geralt’s sunny disposition doesn't do a single thing to dampen Jaskier’s happiness, however. Every day with the witcher is a new day to explore things he never noticed while on the Path by himself. The rich color of wildflowers and the way their soft petals feel on his fingertips when he leans down to touch them would never have been something he would have concerned himself with years ago, nor would excitement bubble in his stomach when they catch wind of some manner of animal near them that is destined to become their dinner, his body pleading with him to give into the chase, to _hunt._. Instead, his life back then had been much like what Geralt’s is now: monsters and money, the way the witcher life is supposed to be. 

Amazingly enough, after a while of being in each other's company, Jaskier finds Geralt enjoying the little things right alongside him. 

When Jaskier tires of riding and decides to walk alongside Pegasus and trips on a poorly placed rock, Geralt snorts and attempts to smother the twitch at the corner of his lips before Jaskier can see. When they lay down beside their campfire under the stars at night and Jaskeir pulls his lute into his lap to strum a few cords, Jaskier can hear the deep sigh Geralt breathes through his nose, almost as though he’s letting all the day’s stresses go in that one big breath. 

These little things become routine. There is a give and take now between them that is both comforting and expected; it’s the perfect combination of security and the assurance that his presence is _wanted_ instead of merely tolerated that has Jaskier’s heart feeling lighter than it’s ever been..

*

They’re in a backwater town in Aedirn when Geralt decides they’ve covered enough ground for the day and decides against marching off into the forest at night, knowing painfully well how clumsy his traveling companion is. The bard is able to trip on the only rock on the straight path and stumble even when Geralt warns him about a deceptively deep puddle or stray tree root.

It’s irritating. It’s annoying and listening to Jaskier whine and mourn over his stained fancy doublets gives Geralt a raging headache more often than not.

Traveling with Jaskier is all of those things and more, and yet. 

Walking the Path side by side with someone that isn’t Roach is…

Well, it’s different. 

Vesemir never mentioned traveling with brothers in arms - the wolves of Kaer Morhen were only pack animals during the winter, each preferring to hunt on their own and go their separate ways as soon as the snows thawed - though he did warn against allowing others into the life of a witcher. Humans aren’t built to withstand the vigorous lifestyle a witcher leads, not to mention the mortal peril they would face no matter where they traveled. The blood and constant danger was usually enough of a deterrent in itself to those with a healthy amount of self preservation.

Vesemir obviously never met Jaskier. 

And Jaskier is definitely something.

Never in his life has Geralt met a human whose scent doesn’t go completely sour with fear when they see his white hair and eyes that mark him as something _other,_ something that isn’t natural. It’s instinct, he knows. Prey are intimidated by predators and the same can be said for monsters. 

Jaskier has never once smelled of fear when with Geralt. No apprehension ever muddies his natural scent of rosin and sandalwood. Not even when Geralt is two potions deep and can’t quite keep a grasp on his more beastly attributes and snarls at noises around their campsite in a warning to stay away, a fact that makes his stomach twist and churn like he downed too many potions in succession and his toxicity is making him hallucinate.

No one aside from his brothers have ever stood their ground when he gets like that. 

Geralt knows that if Jaskier and himself crossed paths years ago, he wouldn’t know what to make of this peacocking human who trails after his heels without a care in the world like he’s all Jaskier has ever wanted out of life, like his sole mission in his limited lifespan is to make the Continent appreciate witchers and the work they do for humanity. 

Before Blaviken, Geralt would have told Jaskier to get lost.

Before Posada, he would have demanded the bard leave him alone and not mess with his name.

Now, though. Now Geralt knows that no amount of force he puts into trying to get Jaskier to see sense and leave his side before he gets hurt will have any effect.

The bard is an enigma just as much as he’s a pain in the arse.

“Geralt,” Jaskier chirps obliviously as he follows behind Geralt’s larger form through the muddy streets of Lindenvale until they come upon what is obviously the best tavern the town has to offer, the light of candles peeking through the gaps in the old wooden door and the sharp laughs attributed to drunks almost headache inducing. Geralt pulls his hood over his head to hide his hair and otherworldly feline eyes before mentally steeling himself against the barrage of scents that are going to assault him as soon as he opens the door. “Geralt, are we staying here for the night?”

Geralt figures his silence is good enough of an answer as he pushes open the steadily rotting oak door and stalks into the establishment to scope out the least populated area of the room before quickly taking a vacant corner spot while Jaskier skips up to the barkeep, the human’s cheeriness clearly rubbing the old woman the wrong way even as Jaskier leans over the counter and begins to flirt with her. 

“My lovely lady,” Jaskier begins, “My friend and I were hoping for a room tonight. And if it’s all the same to you, I could liven up these townsfolk with a bit of song for some food?”

The portly woman makes a face as though Jaskier had just offered to gut a chort right in front of her. It’s a rather severe look on the weathered wrinkles lining her face and around her eyes, though she reluctantly gives in as she picks up a dirty mug and begins to clean it. “We have one room left. One bed. Your food will depend on how well your performance is received.”

Jaskier visibly lights up at the news. Geralt doesn’t doubt the bard had been looking forward to sleeping in a real bed tonight rather than roughing it in the woods like they have been for the past week or so, though the minstrel hasn’t voiced a single complaint about the rough and uneven ground their bedrolls rest on.

He does, however, bitch about everything else under the stars. Geralt has come to realize it’s just who Jaskier is.

Honestly, he would worry more for the bard if he _isn’t_ complaining about something.

“How much is the room?” Geralt impatiently asks the innkeeper in a gruff voice, not missing how she seems to shrink into herself a bit when her eyes catch on a few strands of his white hair peeking out of his cloak and his golden eyes. She recovers from her shock after a moment, but the damage is already done.

“For you? Sixty orens." 

“What? But that’s double what the usual rate is.” Jaskier says, a frown pulling his lips downward in a way that looks so foreign on the cheerful man. Jaskier's scent goes from its usual calming notes of sandalwood and happiness to sour in a split second. It's almost enough to give Geralt whiplash. No one has ever reacted so strongly in his defense before Jaskier came along. It’s such a novelty that Geralt nearly misses his chance to calm the minstrel down before he causes a scene on his behalf.

“We’ll take it.”

“Geralt-” The witcher doesn’t let Jaskier begin his lecture on how he ‘shouldn’t let people walk all over him so blatantly like that!’ or 'really, Geralt. Roughing it in the woods another night isn't going to kill us.' With one large hand clapped firmly onto the bard’s shoulder, the baby pink of his doublet soft against Geralt’s sword calloused palm, the witcher leads Jaskier to the dining area where already a few patrons are perking up at the sight of the lute strapped across Jaskier’s back.

Geralt very carefully does not react when those same people move their attention to his hulking form and recoil at what they see. “It’s something you get used to.” Is all he says as he gives Jaskier a gentle shove into a vacant chair at a table pressed into the corner of the tavern before taking a seat himself with his back to the wall.

It’s doubtful anyone here would be stupid enough to try and attack him but more idiotic things have happened when humans get too deep in their cups.

Jaskier pouts as he crosses his arms at Geralt. “You _shouldn’t_ have to get used to that. It’s completely abhorrent and blasphemous. These same people who glare and treat you like this are the same ones who come crying when they need you to take care of a problem they created by being careless.”

The witcher merely hums as he leans back into his seat and carefully scans the room over Jaskier’s head to pick out anyone who might become a problem. The locals don’t exactly scream ‘violent’, but Geralt has lived long enough to know that any human, when either cornered or drunk, tends to make very poor decisions. Thankfully most of the people have gone back to whatever conversations they were having before the two of them walked in so he merely gives Jaskier a barely there nod before the bard is blowing air out through his nose in an irritated manner. “Don’t you have food to earn?” Geralt prods when it becomes apparent Jaskier doesn’t intend to stop sulking.

“Oh, come off it. With how that hag treated us I’d be shocked if we even manage to get slightly expired scraps by the end of the night.”

The tension lining Jaskier’s expressive eyes softens bit by bit as he takes in the sounds of merrymaking around them now that the indignation is wearing off. A belly laugh from a drunk here, some stilted gossip there; it never fails to brighten Jaskier’s mood when they manage to stumble across a town, and Geralt isn’t foolish enough to try and take the bard out of his element when they stand to profit from it.

Besides, Jaskier is a people person. Being stuck out in the woods with only a witcher and his horse can’t be enough socialization for someone like Jaskier.

Jaskier, who studies Geralt’s face for a moment before those cornflower blue eyes of his go through a myriad of emotions before settling on steely determination. “I’m going to earn us the best damn food this village has to offer.” Jaskier announces as he pushes himself from his seat and parades to the center of the room.

From there, Geralt knows the drill. Jaskier will flirt with a few people to garner interest in himself before beginning whatever ditty he plans on riling up the public with before testing out some new songs he’s been working on while on the road. It’s like clockwork with Jaskier in this regard, and as Geralt relaxes back into his seat now that there isn’t any attention on himself, he allows himself to fully take in the brightly colored bard.

It’s clear to anyone with eyes that Jaskier flourishes under attention and praise. The baby pink doublet and trousers the minstrel is wearing get him a few raised eyebrows from some of the more gruff patrons but as soon as he starts to strum his favorite crowd pleaser song, any hint of curiosity or disgust vanishes in favor of merrymaking.

Perhaps it has something to do with Filavandrel’s lute. Surely an instrument fit for the king of elves is enchanted.

Then again, it’s probably all just Jaskier.

By the time Geralt realizes he’s been staring at the blue eyed man long enough for the musician to have covered a few songs, muffled sounds of a scuffle just outside the tavern catch his attention. No one else seems to notice. Jaskier is still singing and the people around him are still clapping and singing along where they can, and before Geralt can get up and force Jaskier to retire early for the night to avoid getting swept into whatever is going on outside, the door to the tavern flies open and slams against the wall beside it before bouncing back slightly.

A stocky bearded man covered in soot and grime pushes his way through the thick wooden entrance and comes stomping his way through the crowd and right toward Jaskier, his face nearly the same shade of red as his hair. _”You,”_ the man snarls as soon as he’s within a foot of Jaskier, the bard staring at him with wide eyes as the man towers over the minstrel. “You’re the prick who’s gone and got my daughter pregnant!”

The furious man’s roaring seems to go in one ear and out the other for Jaskier who, if possible, looks even more out of his depth than before. “Uh?”

“Don’t give me that shit!” The man roars as he pushes away a teen who makes a move to try and calm him down. “I know what you’ve done. You can’t fool me and neither can she!”

Jaskier simply stares at the man before breaking into a fit of nervous laughter, the sound high and clearly forced as he tries to worm his way out of the situation. “My good sir, we just arrived not more than an hour ago. How could I have gotten your daughter-”

“You lying sack of shit,” The father spits even as Geralt rises to his feet in case a brawl breaks out. It wouldn't be the first time Jaskier has caused an all out war within a tavern and fled before fists started flying. “I know I’ve seen you before. Some hotshot traveling bard a month ago reckoned he’d dilly my youngest daughter and leave her with the child!”

The man had a point. Through their travels, Geralt has known Jaskier to take whatever person he fancied as a temporary lover, giving them his undivided attention for a single night and never seeing them again. And it was true that he had no idea where Jaskier had been before they ran into one another in Posada. He very well could have impregnated many daughters that Geralt doesn’t know about during his life as a traveling musician, for no matter how talkative and eager to engage in elaborate tales, his bard rarely ever speaks of himself. 

“I couldn’t possibly-” Jaskier tries once more, holding his hands up in front of him to lend credence to his pleas of innocence.

The man isn’t having it. “I’d recognize that worthless face of yours any day!”

“But-” Jaskier tries once again, desperately trying to get a word in edgewise when the father appears to have reached the end of his rope and winds his thickly muscled arm back in preparation for a punch.

A punch that never lands, of course, for how could a mere human tear their arm from a witcher’s vice like grip? 

The man - the town’s blacksmith, if the scent of burning metal and soot clinging to his clothes are any indication - reacts violently to being held back from throttling the bard, hissing and scratching at Geralt’s ironclad grip on his wrist despite the fear the white haired witcher can smell wafting off the man in waves as he steps between them to act as a sort of shield for Jaskier. The human’s arms are thick, muscled and strong from a lifetime spent learning his trade, but he is no match for a mutant. “Let go of me, _Butcher_ ” 

That particular word seems to raise Jaskier’s hackles like nothing else has thus far. The bard puffs up as though he’s been deeply offended and fixes the most withering glare Geralt has ever seen disrupt that perpetually cheery expression of his on the town’s blacksmith. “Geralt.” Jaskier insists in a firm, no nonsense voice. “His name is _Geralt_. And he’s going to let you go.”

That admittedly throws Geralt for a second. “Jaskier.” He warns in a low tone, completely unbothered by the human struggling against his hold.

Jaskier doesn’t budge and Geralt has to fight against the urge to squeeze the bridge of his nose to stave off a headache he can feel brewing. 

Only Jaskier would get them accosted by a piss drunk father upset about his daughter’s pregnancy. 

If any of the other tavern goers have opinions on what’s unfolding right in front of them they don’t voice them, content to press themselves to the edges of the room with their shitty ales to stay out of the witcher’s way as Geralt fights down a snarl and releases the man’s wrist from his grip, snorting quickly to rid nis nares of the overpowering stench of stale alcohol and fury coming from the man. 

And, just as Geralt predicted, the blacksmith lunges toward Jaskier in a sloppy attempt to bowl him over with his size alone. It is a fool’s mistake; one made in a split second decision by a man so deep in his cups that he can’t see the way he staggers as he charges, arm held aloft in preparation for a fight but unable to aim.

That, and Jaskier is not as small a man as he appears.

Geralt just barely manages to keep himself from grabbing the man and keeping him as far away from Jaskier as he can regardless of the bard’s possible guilt in all of this. In fact, he’s just about to reach out and grab the man again when Jaskier sidesteps the sloppy drunk’s attempt at a punch and uses the man’s own momentum against him to hook a foot around the man's ankle and trip him. The blacksmith lands on his front with a grunt of pain and before Geralt can make sense of what’s going on, Jaskier is on the man, one knee between the human’s shoulder blades to keep him down and one hand grinding the man’s face into the sticky wood of the tavern floor. 

“As I was saying until you so rudely interrupted me and insulted my companion,” Jaskier continues in a feigned cheery voice, his light salmon colored doublet and trousers staining from the soot and grease on the blacksmith’s clothing. “I cannot be the child’s father. Not even if I wished and prayed and cried with everything I have. It simply isn’t possible.”

This only enrages the drunk more, though Jaskier doesn’t budge an inch when the man begins trying to throw the bard off. “Your kind only know how to spout _lies,_ bard-”

“That isn’t true.” Jaskier releases the hand he has on the back of the man's head to readjust the lute against his back, making sure to keep his knee firmly planted on his back so the blacksmith can’t push himself to his feet. “You have the wrong bard.”

“Are you insinuating that I’m lying?”

Jaskier doesn’t respond to this, simply heaving a deep sigh before lightening up the pressure of the knee on the blacksmith’s back. “I can’t sire children.”

For some reason, a wave of something hot and boiling rushes through Geralt’s veins at this. It’s… a peculiar sensation, one that starts in his clenched jaw and travels all the way to his gut in a trail of fire, stomach churning in uneasiness the way it does when he realizes he’s outmatched in a fight. 

Jaskier has never mentioned this before. Has never even _hinted_ at it, and though Geralt knows he is not entitled to any of the bard’s secrets, this one is something that he would have thought the minstrel would blab about during one of his talkative episodes.

The fact that he hasn’t mentioned a single thing about his past or about this startling condition sits oddly in Geralt’s chest.

Jaskier leans back and releases the man from his hold entirely, nonchalantly straightening himself up as the drunk scrambles to push himself to his feet. “Your daughter will bleed in three day’s time. If she doesn't, I give you my word that I will eat my own lute.”

That visibly baffles the blacksmith. Geralt can relate. “What?” The drunk heaves through deep breaths, struggling to refill his lungs after having been pinned face first to the floor, his hands on his knees as a bout of nausea surely makes his head spin. “And how would you know that?”

Jaskier turns his attention to a terrified looking young blonde woman at the edge of the circle of townsfolk, clutching the fabric of her dress over her chest with terror written into every bit of her being. With this many scents blending in such a small space, Geralt is mildly surprised he hadn’t managed to pick her out as soon as they walked inside. He subtly sniffs at the air, scenting the woman. She smells of the blacksmith - the ash that accompanies flames and the sharp scent of steel.

Instead of answering the blacksmith, Jaskier simply affixes the man with a blank expression. “I will be staying here for the next four days if you’re not convinced. Now if you will excuse me.” And with that Jaskier turns his back to the crowd and retreats to their room for the night, leaving Geralt to deal with the mess created in his wake. It takes one strategically casted axii for the man to finally give up his motives to gut Jaskier and a few grunted words of apology to the innkeeper before Geralt is climbing the stairs and pushing the door to their room open.

No one bothers to follow him.

The noise of the door closing behind him doesn’t seem to bother the room’s inhabitant as Jaskier busies himself with fluttering around the small space like a mother hen, fixing this and adjusting that as he sets their items down where he knows Geralt likes: supplies and valuables under the rented bed, his armor by the door and his swords within easy reach of the mattress in case a wayward assassin or surprise mob come after them. Unease rolls off the bard in waves despite Jaskier trying his hardest to appear as though he’s not affected by what happened downstairs, to hide how shaken he truly is. 

Geralt knows the signs to look for when Jaskier is pretending after spending so much time with the froppy bard.

“Jaskier.”

His voice causes Jaskier’s back to stiffen where he’s facing the only bed in the room, keeping his hands busy by meticulously spreading out his various toiletries and going over them one by one, the cheery salmon color of his doublet at complete odds with the bard’s mood. 

“Do we have enough chamomile oil until we reach the next village? I know the trees don’t particularly care about my appearance but I have _standards,_ Geralt, and I will not go skipping throughout the Continent smelling like the back end of Roach.” Jaskier rambles as he picks through his products one by one until he runs out of things to fret over and his babbling slows down.

Geralt doesn’t say a word as Jaskier works through his anxious energy before he gives up all pretense and all but rips his soot stained doublet off his frame and begins to work on his trousers, the airy chemise he keeps on at all times stretching across deceptively strong shoulders. He can smell the bard’s sweat from here. It’s not an unpleasant aroma; not like other humans scents he has been forced to endure.

Jaskier must be able to feel Geralt’s gaze on his back, for he quickly shucks his trousers and crawls into the bed in only his chemise and smalls before tucking himself into the corner of the mattress closest to the wall, leaving his back facing the witcher. “Don’t.” He warns before Geralt even opens his mouth.

The temptation to ask nearly burns Geralt’s tongue. The silence stretches between them until it’s long past comfortable and finally, Geralt forces himself to move further into the room and begin taking off his extra pieces of armor. His pauldrons go first, then his gauntlets, and before he realizes it, he’s stripped down to his black shirt and a clean pair of trousers.

The bard still hasn’t made a sound when Geralt carefully slides onto the bed atop the moth bitten blanket and settles on his back with his hands clasped over his stomach.

The darkness in the room doesn’t hide Jaskier as well as Geralt knows the bard suspects but he doesn’t mention it as he chances a glance to his side to find the human still facing the wall.

“Jas...”

“Drop it, Geralt.”

The stern quality in the bard’s normally cheery voice throws Geralt for a moment, the harshness of the barked order making something not unlike unease creep into his chest. 

“I’ve never known you to want to drop anything, bard.”

Jaskier does not grace him with a response for a few moments, and Geralt begins to think he’s overstepped when he hears a muffled, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

And what is he supposed to say to that? Jaskier is the more talkative out of the two of them, the one more likely to get them a halfway decent room and a meal whereas Geralt is much more likely to get them run out of town. People are Jaskier’s thing; he always knows just what to say and how to say it to turn the tide in their favor.

It’s tempting to just let it go and fall into slumber. Gods, does Geralt wish he could just ignore the waves of emotion coming off his bard, but he knows if he doesn’t let Jaskeir talk this out, doesn’t let him work through it before he goes to sleep, the man will be in an insufferable mood come morning. 

Be that as it may, Geralt has no idea what to say to make this better. “It’s not so bad. Being … impotent.”

A sharp snort comes from Jaskier, who still doesn’t turn to face him. “That’s a good word for it.”

Geralt hums as he searches the cracks in the wooden ceiling for answers. 

“Why does it matter to you?” Jaskier asks in a quiet voice after a few moments of silence, tearing Geralt out of his silent staring contest with the sub par roofing over their heads. “You never push this hard for conversation. Usually you just grunt at me or give me some weird anecdote designed to confuse me so I’ll drop the subject.”

Words fail Geralt as he struggles to put them together into a reassuring sentence like Jaskier is so good at. It truly is a skill the bard has, Geralt thinks, to be able to word things in such a way that always manages to calm him or offer support in just the way he needs. 

Words are not Geralt’s trade. They are Jaskier’s, but he is willing to leave his comfort zone long enough to try. 

“You smell miserable.”

That isn’t what he wants to say but the words slip from his lips before he can stop them. Jaskier makes an offended noise and whips his head to the side to stare at Geralt with a narrowed gaze before huffing and curling himself further against the wall. “Sorry for being stinky, I guess.”

Frustration bites at Geralt as he curses himself for being so bad with humans. “No, that’s not - fuck,” He blows out a harsh breath of air from his nose before collecting himself and pushing out what he wants to say. “I don’t mean you stink. I just… you always smell happy to me. Like sunflowers and bright summer days. It’s… it’s a comforting smell.” 

A beat passes before Jaskier slowly turns around to lay facing Geralt a mere foot or two away, those baby blue eyes wide and shining with something the witcher is horrified to realize is probably unshed tears. “Geralt, you can _smell_ my emotions?”

Fuck. This is not how he hoped this would go. 

“I - I can’t help it. The extra mutations gave me a very strong sense of smell.”

Geralt suddenly feels their roles have been reversed without him realizing it. One minute Jaskier is unwilling to speak and closed off and the next he’s like an open book, trying to weed out answers Geralt isn’t sure he’s ready to give. “Oh, dear heart, it’s alright.” Jaskier croons.

The endearment isn’t new; Jaskier calls him all sorts of things he’s never been called before, not even by his brothers. Yet despite it being commonplace on Jaskier’s tongue, Geralt can’t fight the tightness in his chest every time the bard refers to him as something so _soft_. “I just- ours is not a case that is uncommon, is what I am trying to say.”

Wide baby blue eyes stare at the side of Geralt’s face like Jaskier could get a peek into his mind if he stared hard enough. Jaskier opens and closes his mouth a few times before speaking. “‘Ours?’”

This is not a conversation he wants to be having.

Everyone knows witchers are sterile, just the same as sorceresses and sorcerers. They are already abominations of nature as it is; it would be beyond cruel for them to be able to bring a child into the lives they lead. Everyone knows that.

Everyone except, apparently, Jaskier.

Geralt closes his eyes for a moment to collect himself without having to stare at those expressive blue eyes while he pieces together what he wants to say. 

“Witchers are… part of the mutations we go through render us… impotent,” He begins haltingly, resolutely keeping his eyes on the creaking wooden beams above them and decidedly not at Jaskier. “The Trials render us infertile. There is nothing to be done about it after the Trials are over. Witchers don’t think about it much.”

The faint sounds of the innkeeper attempting to clear out the tavern below them travels up through the floorboards and adds background noise to the silence that suddenly stretches between them. It’s not the uncomfortable sort - rarely ever is, when Jaskier is involved - and Geralt can’t help the way his arms tense as though expecting jeers and ridicule.

It’s happened before. Whores are relieved to hear about his inability to knock them up but he can still hear them gossip when they think he’s out of earshot. The rumors they spread don’t bother him, not really, but he can see how something of this nature could become a hindrance to someone. 

In fact, he’s about to open his mouth and steer the conversation somewhere less grave when a large but light palm lands on his shoulder. Slender musician’s fingers sear his skin like a hot brand through his nightshirt where they cup his bicep and Geralt can’t keep his eyes away from Jaskier any longer as the bard turns onto his side to face the witcher. His mussed chocolate brown hair is a mess splayed against the pillows but his eyes are soft. So, so soft. “Geralt,” Jaskier whispers as that hand rubs up and down Geralt’s shoulder in a steady rhythm, calming as though the bard thinks _he’s_ the one upset. 

When Jaskier doesn’t follow up with anything, Geralt simply lets him work it out on his own. The blunt nails idly rubbing at a loose thread in his shirt are more than enough of a distraction as he waits for Jaskier to string together what he wants to say.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says once again as he rubs his hand up and down Geralt’s arm once more before some of the bard’s earlier cheerfulness returns to those bright eyes. “For what it’s worth, I think you would make an excellent father, biological or not.”

*

Against Jaskier’s _very_ clear hints that he does not want to part for the winter, Geralt leaves for Kaer Morhen as soon as it becomes too cold to travel comfortably.

The first winter without Geralt is…

Well, _colorless_ is the only word Jaskier can think of to describe it. 

Oxenfurt has always been bustling with sights and sounds and colors. It’s the closest thing to a home he’s had in a very long time. The halls of the academy he owes his new life to are the same as always and so are the students, all young things so full of life and happiness and far away from the heartbreak and danger waiting for them beyond the academy’s walls.

It all used to thrill him. Learning things no other witcher ever dared to try and delve into was a rush on its own. Now, though, without a white haired grump by his side, it all seems dull in comparison to walking dirt roads beside a horse and her rider. 

He hadn’t been invited to teach classes that winter - fucking Valdo Marx got the position this time around, the arsehole - so Jaskier busies himself with warming the beds of interesting people he happens upon in taverns and along the populated streets, willing time to go by faster as he works tirelessly to ignore the burning feeling in his chest whenever he thinks of the witcher he’s due to meet with again in the spring. 

They didn’t have a verbal agreement to meet again. Geralt shrugged off any concrete plans Jaskier tried to come up with along the way but when the time came for them to truly part ways, the witcher had grunted something about heading past Oxenfurt the first day the snow begins to thaw, and that had been that.

So it isn’t a promise as much as it is an implication, and Jaskier is all too happy read between the lines.

Time stretches on in a haze of frigid temperatures until Jaskier is ready to go stir crazy as he watches the snow thaw and the first signs of spring finally grace the mortal realm. An entire siege could’t stop Jaskier as he throws what sparse belongings he owns into a bag and hurriedly rides Pegasus out toward the gates to Oxenfurt, his hopes sky high and his heart in his throat as he rides. 

Geralt didn’t mention a specific place they would meet but Jaskier doesn’t get the chance to overanalyze the situation as he makes it past the guards and a head of white hair sitting astride a familiar chestnut mare meets his gaze just beyond the bridge into the city.

Their reunion goes by in a flurry of Jaskier asking question after question about Kaer Morhen and how Geralt passed the time with his brothers, Geralt merely sighing at his rapidfire inquiries and indulging him as best he can with one word answers or hums of agreement.

Roach at least seems happy to see him.

As soon as they’re far enough from Oxenfurt to not see or smell any signs of the city, Geralt tosses a fairly sized object at Jaskier and forces him to scramble to catch it without falling sideways off Pegasus’s back. Jaskier doesn’t dare to breathe as he pulls an intricately carved silver blade out of the sheathe, the ornate handle fitting perfectly in his palm and the weight of it balanced in a way he knows means it had been handmade with the utmost care. 

Jaskier gapes at Geralt as the witcher offers his traveling companion a simple half hearted shrug. “Figured you might as well be armed if you’re insistent on traveling with a witcher. Can’t count on just your words to get you out of bar fights.”

All at once, every attempt at distancing himself from the warm fluttering in his heart whenever he thought about the other man over the winter is gone, a giddy, bright kind of happiness taking its place and flooding through his veins, the feeling alone pulling his lips into a smile so wide it hurts his cheeks as the meaning behind the gift sinks in. 

Geralt had used his time in Kaer Morhen to make him a dagger to protect himself with. The witcher had thought about him despite them being apart from one another for an entire season.

Geralt hadn’t abandoned him in Oxenfurt. He had made good on his promise to return, to come back to Jaskier’s side.

Geralt had _stayed._

*

Pavetta’s betrothal party could have gone a whole lot better.

Though, Jaskier supposes as he smooths chamomile oil over Geralt’s ridgid shoulders, it could have gone a whole lot worse. 

“Now, now,” Jaskier tuts as he works his thumbs into the tense spots in the witcher’s back and shoulders, not minding the little splash of bath water on his trousers here and there when he has to put more of his weight into his ministrations to really loosen the witcher up. After all, Geralt had gone and royally fucked himself over not an hour earlier. It was best to offer help from the sidelines and simply let the witcher work things out on his own sometimes. “What have I said about those boorish grunts of protest? It won’t be nearly as bad as you’re making it out to be.”

The growl Jaskier can both hear and feel vibrating against Geralt’s skin as the witcher snarls at him makes his heart hurt, the sound of it so guttural and pained that he instantly gentles his palms against the scarred skin of Geralt’s shoulders and back, gently gliding the pads of his fingers over raised flesh and humming a soft note to both ease the words from the witcher’s throat and to soothe any lingering aches from those old battle wounds. 

“A _child_ , Jaskier,” Geralt spits as he sulks in the tub Jaskier had bought for them. “I can’t - a _child_ isn’t meant for this kind of life. Fuck destiny; I can’t put them in danger.”

There is little more Jaskier can do than carefully switch his gentle caresses to combing through Geralt’s knotted locks with his whalebone comb he keeps in his bag specifically for detangling Geralt’s fair locks, slowly but surely pulling out every snarl and leaving those soft white strands smooth. “I know. A witcher’s way of life isn’t suited for a child, let alone a grown adult.” He agrees easily as he busies himself with simply playing with the witcher’s hair, braiding a few wet locks together into an intricate braid as Geralt slowly works through his thoughts.

Truth be told, Jaskier would be more than happy to sit on that uncomfortable wooden stool and pamper Geralt if that’s what it would take to drain the tension from his shoulders. The man has enough in his life that drags him down. 

“But!” Jaskier adds with a playful swat to one of Geralt’s massive biceps as he pushes himself to his feet and wanders over to his satchel containing the various oils and soaps he loves using on the other man. Melitele only knows how much it helps with his scent after a hunt. “You’re forgetting something very important in this scenario, my dear witcher.”

With his back turned to Geralt, Jaskier can’t see the man’s expression but he can hear the questioning grunt clear as day as he picks out a light chamomile soap to wash away the spilled ale and grubbiness from the ruined banquet. Scrubbing the spilled drink and grime out of the witcher’s hair the first time around had used up what little of the soap had been left from last time. Now with a new hunk of soap in hand, Jaskier makes his way back to the tub and takes his spot behind the larger man once more, dutifully keeping his eyes from straying to the bathwater barely doing a thing to preserve Geralt’s modesty. “I’ll be by your side no matter what comes to pass. We’ve been through much together.”

Not a sound passes Geralt’s lips as Jaskier speaks, his own voice barely above a whisper over the occasional faint hum of tavern goers below them, the weak wooden floor boards doing nothing to staunch the sound of drunk merrymaking. 

Jaskier feels his heart crack just a bit at the clear disbelief ringing loudly in the silence the white haired witcher refuses to break. Still, Jaskier remains resolute. “You’d have to have been hit on the head if you think you’re going to deal with this by yourself. You’re not alone in this, Geralt.”

A tense moment passes before Geralt heaves a great sigh and tips his head back into Jaskier’s waiting hands, finally allowing his exhausted eyes to flutter closed and fully enjoy the thumbs massaging their way up and down the back of his neck and through his hair. “I don’t need anyone and I don’t want anyone needing me. That includes you, bard.”

Despite himself, Jaskier’s fingers pause for a moment against the back of Geralt’s head before resuming his mindless massage, sadness coating the back of Jaskier’s tongue so thickly he’s surprised he can’t hear his own misery when he speaks. “Well, that’s just entirely too bad.”

*

Hunting drowners in a swamp is perhaps the most mind numbing and easy contract Geralt has taken in Jaskier’s presence so far this year. 

Drowners are ugly things, monsters that look like a combination of a particularly ugly fish and a human who had been marinating in the ocean for a couple weeks. They’re dumb and act on instinct alone, making them easy targets for other monsters or monster hunters that have the advantage of brainpower and forethought on their side. 

That being said, Geralt takes out the entire nest of them in under an hour. 

Jaskier cheers him on from the sidelines, offering helpful tips here and there that save the witcher from having a chunk taken out of his arm at one point. Roach and Pegasus simply watch the annihilation beside him as Geralt makes quick work of the drowners and blows up their nest with a Grapeshot bomb, only lingering long enough to ensure nothing else is lurking around the area before returning to his companion and their mares. 

“You smell like shit.” Jaskier says as Geralt stomps up to his horse and pulls out a few vials to collect monster parts in. 

“You’re the one who insisted on tagging along. Deal with it.” Geralt says as he wipes a hand over his face to rid his eyes of the swampy gunk that had been flung at his face by an enraged drowner early on in the fight. Jaskier makes an offended gasp as Geralt makes to sling the gunk at the bard who quickly sidesteps the attack and gives him a withering look in response.

“I don’t appreciate that.”

Geralt simply thrusts a few empty vials into Jaskier’s hands with a grunt before beginning the trek back to the fallen drowners. “I didn’t ask you to be appreciative. Now help me scavenge tongues, brains, and anything else useful. Only coin we’ll be getting from this will have to come from the apothecary.”

Jaskier follows even as he gags at the memories of watching Geralt harvest monster parts during their past travels together. Still, he pulls out his gifted silver dagger and sets to work as soon as they make it back to the mutilated bodies, his nose scrunching up in disgust at the horrid stench of decaying drowners on a hot summer day. “Not that I’m opposed to frisking corpses, dear, but this is a little gross.”

“You’re the one insisting on staying in inns and buying ridiculous shit. We have to make coin somehow, what with you spending it on meaningless things all the time.” A wet squelch accompanies Geralt's deep voice as he shoves his thick fingers into a gutted drowner's mouth to root around for the base of its tongue. 

A few of the drowner’s teeth come free as Jaskier does the same and has to actively fight against his gag reflex to not reintroduce him to the trail mix he had been munching on prior to this hunt. Gods above, he truly does not miss this part of being a witcher. How Geralt can stand smelling like a rotten carcass covered in old blood, Jaskier will never know. 

After a handful of minutes that feel like hours, Geralt stops his forraging and sniffs the air, a concentrated look on his face as he hurriedly packs away what organs he managed to scavange before casting igni at the corpses to keep necrophages away. “Smells like rain.”

While the thought of a nice summer shower rinsing Geralt of his disgusting goopy chunks of drowner hanging off of him, Jaskier can’t catch his disgust in time as the witcher raises two white eyebrows at him. “It’s going to rain? But it’s been so sunny today! The sky is clear and I don’t hear any thunder!” Jaskier whines.

Geralt doesn’t acknowledge his complaints and instead shoves his vials into Roach’s saddlebags before offering Pegasus a contrite look. “Your rider really is an idiot, huh?”

“Hey!” 

“Don’t listen to him,” Geralt rumbles as he casts a glance up to the sky just in time to feel a single drop of water hit his nose. “We should get moving.”

Jaskier begins to protest when a single drop lands on his head and his eyes go round and surprised.

The steadily building drizzle quickly becomes a downpour in a matter of seconds, not nearly enough time for them to find shelter large enough for two full grown men and two horses out in such a swampy area. Jaskier manages to find a shallow cave off the beaten trail through the sheets of rain pelting them, and while it wouldn’t offer much space once they were all inside, it would have to do. 

_”Fuck,_ I hate the rain,” Jaskier spits as he quickly props his lute case as far back in the cave and away from the torrential downpour outside as possible before cold, slightly trembling fingers are attempting to pull apart th buttons on his soaked chemise, the freezing fabric clinging to his sensitive skin and causing shivers to run up and down his body. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. A light shower on a scorching day is absolute bliss, but the moisture is _hell_ on musical instruments.”

Geralt simply hums where he’s shed his armor and boots and is seated against the cold rock wall of the cave in nothing but his soaked trousers. Thankfully the rain had hit him hard enough to wash away a good deal of the drowner remains staining his clothes and coating his skin.

“The lute.” Geralt begins haltingly as he watches Jaskier finally win the battle with his doublet and carefully drape it over Roach’s back before smoothing out any wrinkles, much to the horse’s displeasure.

“My lute…?” Jaskier prompts as he throws his hands up at his doublet when it becomes apparent it’s a lost cause and wanders over to sit across from the witcher. Deceptively muscled arms wrap around the bard’s legs as he huddles into himself to keep any semblance of warmth from leaving his body. 

“Why the lute?”

“Oh,” Jaskier says as he fixes Geralt with a wide eyed look. “I - well, it’s a long, sort of stupid story.”

Geralt makes a show of glancing around the cave they’re huddled in like that alone is enough of an answer, and Jaskier supposes the witcher has a point. They definitely aren’t going anywhere anytime soon with the rain coming down in buckets. 

“Alright, fair point.” Jaskier amends as he rubs his hands up and down his legs to try and get some feeling back in his fingers. It always struck him as odd how the day could be so warm and pleasant only for the skies to open up above them and drop the temperature so quickly. “I suppose we’ve reached the part in our friendship where we can talk about our tragic backstories without being judged.”

Those catlike eyes of Geralt’s seem to have a slight glow of their own as they settle on Jaskier like a physical weight, though the man they belong to doesn't move an inch. 

“I guess I should start off where the lute becomes relevant.” Jaskier says. “I was always someone who felt too much. No matter what I did, no matter how I tried, I… _felt_ things stronger than those around me. I spent most of my childhood and teen years so angry at the world around me that I feared if I didn’t find an outlet for everything bottling up inside me I would snap and do something I’d regret.”

If Geralt is surprised by any of this he doesn’t show it, that chiseled face just as stoic as always, though his golden eyes regard Jaskier in what the bard believes is curiosity and permission to continue. 

“After a particularly nasty bar fight in my late teens, I realized I needed to find a way to channel my emotions in a way that wouldn’t end up getting me killed. I’ve always thought I have a nice voice and an ear for music so I enrolled myself into Oxenfurt University and picked up the lute. Once I graduated I decided to see the world and become a traveling bard.”

Geralt is quiet for a few moments, the only sound other than the rain being a soft whicker from Pegasus where she was laying beside Roach near the entrance. “That’s… a lot less dramatic than what I was expecting.”

Jaskier holds himself tighter and sniffs. “Yes, well. Not everything has to be dramatic.”

Geralt’s white brows raise in a move clearly designed to ruffle Jaskier’s feathers. “You graduated from Oxenfurt?”

The surprise evident in Geralt’s voice is at complete odds with whatever it is his eyebrows are doing, so Jaskier simply huffs and leans forward to rest his chin on his arms crossed atop his knees. “I did. I graduated after studying the Several Liberal Arts and serve as an adjunct professor during the winter months.”

The howling winds outside combined with the harsh patter of rain pelting the ground slowly drowns out their conversation until they’re encompassed in an easy silence, both men content to watch the weather wreak havoc on the landscape before them.

Geralt’s knotted hair is plastered to his neck in little slivers while any flyaway strands wormed free of his hair tie frame his face in shocks of white, one in particular trailing to the bridge of his nose and almost to his lip. He looks every bit a drowned white wolf, and despite himself, Jaskier can’t help but snicker at the thought. Even when drenched and covered in drowner parts, Geralt is still breathtakingly beautiful.

White lashes flutter over sharp catlike eyes as Geralt glances at him wordlessly for a few moments before turning back to staring out the mouth of the cave. 

The silence between them this time is more weighted, less comfortable than the one before, and Jaskier knows it’s up to him to break it because Melitele knows Geralt can’t start a conversation that isn’t a slightly aggressive invitation to a round of gwent or an expletive. 

“What’s Kaer Morhen like?” Jaskier asks in a voice just above a whisper. “It must be nice to have a home and family to return to every winter.”

Those massive shoulders Jaskier has spent a frankly embarrassing amount of time admiring tense up for a moment before Geralt forces himself to relax. It’s a reaction Jaskier is familiar with. No witcher in his right mind would offer up any clues on where they consider home, for humans tend to be vile creatures and wouldn't think twice about seeking out their fortresses and dismantling them. 

Jaskier knows the unease Geralt must be feeling, so he hurries to soothe the other man. “Don’t worry Geralt, I’m simply curious. I mean,” He adds, “I’ve been searching for my home since I was a child.”

The relief on Geralt’s face at being given an out is barely visible but Jaskier catches it quickly. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t add to a single thing Jaskier has asked, but the poet doesn’t mind. 

Just being here by his side is enough. 

“Have you found it?” Geralt asks softly after a few minutes of simply studying Jaskier’s face, those sharp golden eyes taking in every bit of his appearance and flaying Jaskier bare where he sits. “Your home?”

Jaskier works his tongue against the roof of his suddenly dry mouth before blinking a few times in surprise. Of all the things Geralt could have asked, this is not one the bard anticipated the taciturn witcher to voice. For someone who grumbles about having to converse with anyone but his horse, Geralt can be surprisingly perceptive when he wants to be. 

Still, Jaskier can’t give too much away. Chasing Geralt around the Continent isn’t as appealing as traveling by his side.

And yet… Jaskier can’t lie to him.

“I… I really think I have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for this chapter being so short. The next ones will be much longer. Please let me know what you think and/or if you find any mistakes!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier finally realizes his hands are shaking when Roach gives him a quick nip to get his attention. “Oh,” He breathes, lowering his hands where he had been attempting to shove his favorite doublet into Pegasus’s already overpacked bag. “ _Oh,_ my dear Roach, your pigheaded owner will be back soon. He’d never leave you.” Roach merely snuffles at him and bumps her head against his chest the same way she does when greeting Geralt and _wow,_ has the world always been this blurry? “It’s alright, don’t you worry. You’re the only living being on this entire blasted Continent he cares about; he won’t abandon you here.” Jaskier rambles tearfully as he finally gives up on shoving his doublets into his saddlebags and just throws them to the ground by Roach’s hooves in a fit of rage filled grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey sorry this isn't as long as I would like it to be but I really struggled these past few weeks but I'm trying to find time to get back into this!

Just when everything is starting to feel right and Jaskier is finally learning to be content with his place in the world, his life is turned upside down once again in a way that leaves him blindsided.

He and Geralt separated as soon as the days became short and frost covered the ground in the mornings as they always do at that time of year. After a few winters of surviving without the White Wolf under his belt, Jaskier works out a way to keep himself sane while he waits in Oxenfurt for the witcher to come back down the mountains leading to Kaer Morhen.

What he had divulged to Geralt in that miserable rainy cave months ago is still true. He serves as an adjunct professor during the winter months in Oxenfurt while the witcher is off sulking in his mysterious mountain fortress, yes, but what he hadn’t mentioned was how his students were the only thing that kept him from tearing off into the night to make sure Geralt was taking care of himself. 

Lord knows the taciturn witcher is about as skilled with self care as he is with words.

Still, he acknowledges that Geralt is his own person and doesn’t need Jaskier hovering over his shoulders every hour of every day. Besides; they have a routine, albeit an unspoken one, but one Jaskier has learned is tried and true with someone as set in their ways as his white haired travel companion.

It’s always the same: Geralt will meet him in the spring by the bridge leading to Oxenfurt and toss some handmade trinket to Jaskier with a halfhearted explanation and start riding away without turning back to see the face splitting grin on Jaskier’s face as he tucks away whatever it is his wolf made him that winter.

One winter it was a silver dagger. Another winter was a silver ring. No matter what, Geralt always shows up with some sort of gift tossed halfheartedly at Jaskier as though it physically pained the witcher to show the bard he thought about him over the winter months.

Nine years pass with this unspoken agreement between the two men and Jaskier hadn’t seen any signs of that changing any time soon. 

And yet this spring, however, Geralt never shows.

It is unlike anything that has happened before. They always run into each other during the first thaw of the season, when vegetation is beginning to peek up out of the few remaining snow drifts and the days slowly become longer and brighter. 

That spring, none of the guards at the gates of Oxenfurt report catching a glimpse of a man with white hair wielding two swords. No stablehands make any remarks about a testy chestnut mare and her equally moody rider, and no children run screaming to hide behind their mothers skirts at the sight of a man with catlike eyes. 

Jaskier gives it two weeks before the weight of not knowing if Geralt is still in one piece finally drives him far enough up a wall that he takes off in search of the witcher, hurriedly tacking up a grumpy Pegasus before combing through the routes he predicts Geralt might take coming from Kaer Morhen.

Not that he’s ever been there of course. Geralt is just as elusive about the keep full of witchers as he is about everything else in life - which is to say, Jaskier only learned what could barely be called the bare minimum through grunts and shrugs.

Four days go by in a blind panic as Jaskier tumbles through the woods with his nose practically to the ground, sniffing out any signs left behind by people and animals that have passed through the area within the last week or so. There is no scent of leather and blade oil on the wind; no pungent but calming smell of Roach on any of the trails or surrounding trees, and right when Jaskier finally thinks he’s going to lose himself to his desperation, a soft snort from a horse a few miles down wind catches his attention. 

Gearlt is, of course, where Jaskier least expects him to be. Of all places, finding the famous White Wolf violently throwing a net into a lake while grumbling about not being able to sleep is not how Jaskier imagined running into him. Granted, he’s overjoyed at seeing the other man whole and not in danger like he feared, but the festering anger at being forgotten and left behind to rot in the bowels of Oxenfurt quickly takes over and has him behaving a bit more aggressively toward Geralt as he needles the exhausted man.

And, as if being forgotten about wasn’t enough, Geralt insults his singing. 

From there it’s all a blur of pain and blood and the feeling of large, rough hands hoisting him onto the back of an animal and handed to an elf before Jaskier passes out from the agony only to awaken as he’s being hauled into a manor.

Rinde happens.

And with Rinde, Yennefer happens as well.

The moment they meet her in the middle of her enchanted town orgy, Jaskier instantly dislikes her. The villagers participating in the scene she’s coerced them into is one thing; he’s been around long enough to see some truly wild things, so that’s not what has his throat constricting around the lump in his airway.

The problem is, there’s an energy around her that just doesn't sit well with him - an insatiable lust for power and something else he can’t figure out over the lump he struggles to breathe around in his throat - but he’s not so vain to attempt to lie to himself and say she’s not attractive, because she _is._

And, perhaps, that’s part of what makes this so dangerous.

Violet eyes hiding behind a black mask sparkle with interest as he watches her study Geralt, her full, painted red lips stretching over perfect teeth in a smile and her silky dark hair framing her angelic face. Her choice of dress for the evening does her shape wonders and only adds to her ethereal beauty.

Geralt clearly doesn’t find her unattractive, what with the way his eyes follow her every movement like he’s hunting some poor creature to kill for dinner, but Jaskier can live with that. 

Or at least he thought he could until she heals him and sends him into a comatose state to heal the damage the djinn had caused to his throat.

And then, because nothing in his life is allowed to be ordinary, she tries to kill him to capture said djinn after Geralt spills the metaphorical beans on how they came into this predicament. And for Melitele’s sake; he’s a _witcher_ , albeit a semi retired one, but the woman scares the shit out of him. Whatever half baked plan she has going on in her head is none of his business, and even as he escapes out of the crumbling manor while she’s distracted, he can’t help but warn Geralt that she should be left alone.

Only trouble can follow a sorceress willing to sacrifice someone she doesn’t know to regain something she can never get back. Geralt argues with him and pushes him aside with a rough hand, much more brutesque than Jaskier is used to feeling when it comes to Geralt’s guiding hands.

The thing is, Jaskier is used to Geralt not listening to him. He’s fully aware the white haired witcher tunes him out more often than not when he composes on the road or when he rambles just to fill the silence. Jaskier knows all this. It’s just how Geralt is, but the way the man all but shoves him away...

It stings something fierce.

Still, there is nothing more he can do when Geralt has his mind set on something. If he wants to risk his life to save a crazy sorceress on a warpath she will never win, then that’s his prerogative. Jaskier can wait for him to come back and patch up whatever wounds he gets in the inevitable scuffle just as he has been doing for the past nine years of their friendship.

He can get through this.

Or at least he thought he could until he finds them in the rubble of the fallen manor going at it like a couple of animals.

Chireadan, the elf who gave him a salve for the pain before they were redirected to seek out Yennefer, quickly comes up to him to peer into the window as well. The elf’s voice beside him demanding him to move away from the window goes in one ear and out the other as Jaskier feels the entire fragile relationship he built with Geralt over countless years of hard work come crumbling down around him with every snap of pale hips against the sorceress who had tried to kill him to capture a djinn, the small spark of hope that Geralt could one day see him as more than a simple bard he kept nestled between his ribs in his poet’s chest being snuffed out like a light.

_“Oh.”_ Is what passes his lips in a punched out breath. Distantly, Jaskier feels himself being hauled away from the scene unfolding in front of him and back over to where Roach is still waiting at the entrance to the property, her coat glistening in the afternoon sun and her mouth happily munching on a patch of sweetgrass. There are hands running over his shoulders and down his arms before two hands - small, not large and rough and _not right_ \- cup his cheeks and demand he come back to himself. 

“You’re going into shock. I recognize the look.” Chireadan’s sympathetic but stern voice tells him over the rushing sound in his ears as he ushers Jaskier to sit beside Roach on a bit of soft grass just by her left flank, his lute settled on the ground to his right with the rest of his and Geralt’s belongings. The elf, after making sure Jaskier isn’t going to take off and get himself hurt, calmly sits beside Jaskier and stares at the settling dust around the manor that houses the two people their hearts yearn for, not making a sound as Jaskier slowly reaches for his lute and tugs it into his lap to wrap his arms around the neck and huddle it close to his chest.

It isn’t a new revelation when it comes to his feelings about Geralt. Jaskier muses he became infatuated with the man the moment their eyes met in Posada and plunged deeper into the abyss of attraction the more he got to know the gruff witcher as a person instead of just a handsome stranger. 

Caring about Geralt isn’t new. Hell, being rejected isn’t new either.

Being so blatantly disregarded though… that’s new.

And Melitele does it _hurt._

The smooth ethereal wood of the lute against his silken doublet does little to soothe the agony and even less so when Jaskeir feels the subtle vibrating of his witcher medallion thumping around in the hidden compartment of his lute. Of course it would react to the traces of magic that follow Yennefer like clouds before a storm, the soft hum of the vibration trying to warn him of something catastrophic after it’s already happened.

How could he have allowed them to get to this point? Why had he needled Geralt so badly down by the river when he could see plain as day that the witcher was struggling with something? Nothing good ever came from crossing the boundary set by their normal back and forth bickering. What had he been thinking?

All it takes is a brush of Chireadan’s shoulder against his own and a soft nickering sound from Roach for Jaskier to break.

Sobs shake his frame so strongly that Jaskier can taste his own heartbreak on his tongue, can smell the misry pouring off himself in waves despite his glamor being in full effect. Chireadan simply lays a soothing hand on his back and rubs between his shoulder blades as he lets his emotions truly consume him for the first time in years, the force of his wails tearing up his throat and reducing his voice to something he suspects sounds like someone gargling a handful of rocks.

It’s painful. It’s embarrassing. It’s liberating.

Chireadan lets him ride out the disorienting waves of emotion without a word of complaint until Jaskier has bled himself dry.

Not once does Geralt come searching for him despite the sounds he’s making. Jaskier notices. Chireadan notices.

It feels like a punch to the gut when he’s already down that even with Geralt’s enhanced hearing, he doesn’t disentangle himself from the mad witch who tried to murder his best friend and come see if Jaskier is safe.

Time seems to stretch on indefinitely until after what feels like days but was realistically only an hour or two a dark familiar figure comes climbing out of the wreckage.

When Geralt eventually does emerge from the rubble, Jaskier can’t look at him and Chireadan gives the witcher such a scathing look that Jaskier is sure the elf would have tried to fight Geralt had he thought he would stand any chance against a witcher. Geralt doesn’t try to interact with the elf and instead begins to saddle up Roach without the usual furrow between his brows that he normally has. Jaskier silently puts his trembling hands to use by hastily wiping the tears off his lute and petting Roach’s snout, struggling to hold back a wet laugh when she gently nudges his chest with her long face. Much to Jaskier’s delight, the mare has come to enjoy his company after so many summers of sneaking her apples and sugar cubes when her owner isn’t looking. 

Said horse’s owner doesn’t say a word at his teary laugh, though the golden eyed man does raise an eyebrow when he catches the scent of salt and misery in the air and turns to stare at Jaskier like he’s trying to piece something together.

Jaskier can see Geralt begin to formulate a question in his mind. He gives himself away by how he averts his eyes and his face pinches in concentration. Large battle scarred hands tighten on Roach’s reins as he finishes readjusting her tack, and before the witcher can figure out whatever it is he wants to say, Jaskier simply releases Roach and begins a silent march into the forest toward the trail he knows Geralt had been intending on taking before the whole djinn incident came about. 

Chireadan lets them go without a word. 

The calming sounds of nature singing their praises for the sun around them do nothing to quell the frustration, rage, and soul crushing _hurt_ that rips through his chest until Jaskier is silently gasping for breath against the pain, the ache so centralized beneath his rib cage and in his heart that it becomes almost impossible to keep from falling to his knees. 

“You’re not singing.”

Once upon a time, hearing Geralt’s low rumbling voice speaking to him so gently would have made his heart skip a beat and work overtime to make up for it in the seconds that follow, for the voice of the White Wolf is the only thing on this Continent that Jaskier would drop everything just to hear.

It does not invoke the same feeling this time. Instead, a gnawing sort of fury bubbles low in his stomach and rises up into his chest so quickly that Jaskier fears he will choke on the acidity of it. “Not in the mood.” Is what he manages to force out around the lump in his throat.

The sound of Geralt making a considering hum behind him almost makes Jaskier want to whirl around and whack the man in the head with his lute. Now is not the time for Geralt to be itching for conversation - not after what he has said and done in the past two days, and especially not when Jaskier is teetering on the edge of losing his composure.

“Never known you to be this silent.” Is what Geralt says next and oh, Jaskier finds himself almost wishing he would have stayed with the witch longer to give himself more time to sort himself out.

“Yes, well. Sometimes even fillingless pies reach the end of their rope.” The venom in his voice sounds pathetic to his own ears and Jaskier swears his heart falls into his stomach as soon as the words pass his lips. It’s unnecessarily cruel to speak to Geralt like this outside the realm of their playful bickering, and he’s fully expecting Geralt to throw a quip back at him in return.

Interestingly, Geralt remains silent.

The sound of horse hooves calmly clopping away behind him lets Jaskier know that Geralt hasn’t turned around and made a break for the witch like the bard suspects the white haired man wants to, and for the first time since their friendship began, Jaskier finds himself unable to look at him.

*

“Your voice isn’t a fillingless pie.” Geralt whispers to Jaskier on the night of the fifth day in a row where Jaskier refuses to so much as tune his lute as they pick their way through dense forests and up steep hills to find another trail leading to Blackbough. The apology isn’t one Jaskier had been expecting Geralt to make so soon given how long it takes the white haired man to string together a sentence on a good day, but Jaskeir appreciates it nevertheless.

He doesn’t say so on principle of course, because while it’s nice for Geralt to finally apologize for taking the low road with that specific insult, Jaskier would have preferred if he hadn’t taken the coward’s way out and apologized while he thought Jaskier was sleeping.

He wants Geralt to see the hurt in his eyes as he looks at Jaskier; he wants Geralt to see how much knowing he chose bedding Yennefer over comforting his friend who had almost been killed by said witch tears at his soul.

Jaskier wants Geralt to know all of these things, but wanting and doing are two separate things.

The night passes without either of them uttering another word.

“

Two months later, their dynamic has returned to something resembling their normal routine, albeit a bit more tense. Geralt still hasn’t apologized for nearly killing him with his wish and subsequently forcing destiny’s hand to throw Yennefer into the mix and yet Jaskier finds it increasingly easier to put the witch behind them as something from their past. 

Geralt is a good man. Jaskier would not have followed the white haired witcher for so long if he didn’t think the White Wolf is as heroic as Geralt tries to deny being. The seemingly endless miles of terrain ahead of them gives Jaskier enough time to mull over past events and come to a conclusion.

Perhaps Geralt simply didn’t see his betrayal as Jaskier had.

Everyone makes mistakes. Melitele only knows how many Jaskier has made in his long life, so holding Geralt to a different standard than himself isn’t exactly fair.

Not a single village he and Geralt make their way through hold any purple eyed sorceress, and for that, Jaskier is immensely thankful. The bruise on his heart is still in the early healing stages from Geralt’s utter lack of self preservation and dismissal of him earlier that spring. It still aches from time to time, of course. Heartbreak rarely fixes itself in under a month, Jaskeir has learned, though with each secret smile Geralt graces him with when Jaskier sings a perfect set and is bathing in applause or even when he manages to not burn their dinner on the first try, that dull ache slowly lessens.

Aegal would have made a quip about Jaskier being a baby at heart if he were there, and Gretka would have teased him mercilessly for being so weak in matters of the heart. Their memory brings a bittersweet smile to his face as he silently agrees.

Jaskier has always been the forgiving sort. 

”

There’s a dragon hunt and Jaskier once again experiences his heart being ripped from his chest when Geralt skips joining Jaskier at their little camp and instead vanishes into Yennefer’s tent for the night without a second glance. Gone unnoticed are the efforts Jaskier went to in rolling out the white haired man’s bedroll for him and fluffing up the softest of his own expensive clothing to act as a pillow for the man. A single measly rabbit sits on a spit over the meager fire Jaskier had scraped together to share with Geralt, the fat from the creature sizzling in the flames as it cooks. 

It’s a slap in the face as much as it is a message. Jaskier is beginning to see that while Geralt is not a man of many words, he is a man of action, and nothing says ‘leave’ like blowing off your best friend to sleep with a crazed sorceress who tried to kill said friend not terribly long ago. 

And well. Jaskier can’t say he’s new to the whole ‘being abandoned by someone he thought cared for him’ thing. Geralt isn’t the first to get fed up with him and simply distance himself, and he certainly won’t be the last.

After all, who could stand to stick by the side of the Mad Cat of Kerack?

Yarpin sends him a pitying look over the dwarves campfire as soon as Gearlt is out of sight. Had things gone down differently that night, Jaskier thinks he might have enjoyed joining the dwarves and swapping stories with them. They’re rowdy - voices loud and boisterous and unapologetic in the kind of way that rubs Geralt the wrong way more often than not - but Jaskier himself finds them interesting.

Still, he has a broken heart to nurse, so Jaskier turns his back to the dwarves and allows the darkness of the night to hide the sight of his heart breaking once again, his dinner untouched. 

*

The mountain happens. The valleys below them seem to echo the scathing words shouted between Geralt and Yennefer only to be directed toward him when he tried to offer a hand. There is a hole where Jaskier’s heart used to be, an emptiness in his chest that eats at him as he hurriedly descends that blasted mountain with tears in his eyes and his hands shaking. 

Fuck Geralt and _fuck_ Yennefer. He does not deserve this. Never has and never will, and like hell he’ll stay around after Geralt screamed abuse at him like that after everything he’s done for the man. 

Unbidden, words he was meant to pass onto a White Wolf with a bite as sharp as his heart passed though his mind. Back then, Jaskier hadn’t paid much heed to the words as the mysterious sorceress who saved him gave him another chance at life. What good would passing a message to a wolf do when the animal wouldn’t understand?

Back then he hadn’t known what she was talking about. 

Back then he couldn’t have fathomed this happening.

Jaskier sends a silent apology to the sorceress for not relaying her message to the White Wolf before he was thrown away.

As he reaches the bottom of the mountain, Roach gives him an inquisitive look that quickly turns into distress as he hurriedly pulls any trace of himself from her pack and shoves it into the smaller ones on Pegasus’s saddle. Not everything fits, hence the reason he started stuffing some of his own overflow belongings into Geralt’s bags in the first place. 

Jaskier finally realizes his hands are shaking when Roach gives him a quick nip to get his attention. “Oh,” He breathes, lowering his hands where he had been attempting to shove his favorite doublet into Pegasus’s already overpacked bag. “ _Oh,_ my dear Roach, your pigheaded owner will be back soon. He’d never leave you.” Roach merely snuffles at him and bumps her head against his chest the same way she does when greeting Geralt and _wow,_ has the world always been this blurry? “It’s alright, don’t you worry. You’re the only living being on this entire blasted Continent he cares about; he won’t abandon you here.” Jaskier rambles tearfully as he finally gives up on shoving his doublets into his saddlebags and just throws them to the ground by Roach’s hooves in a fit of rage filled grief. 

Mud and dust settle into the doublets' expensive silks almost as soon as they reach the ground. Vibrant purples and rich gold become muddled and ruined as he continues ripping trinkets and baubles out of Geralt's packs and allows them to join the mess of clothes surrounding the horses. Bottles of expensive shampoos and vials of chamomile oil splinter and break soundlessly over the blood pounding in his ears until there’s nothing left in the white haired witcher’s packs that doesn’t belong to him.

A nauseating mixture of the various oils and liquids hit Jaskier’s nose as he finally crumples into a crouch between the mares and hides his face in his hands to sob.

What was he doing here? Why was he so utterly destroyed by so few words? Many other men had shouted far worse vitriol at him for far less. Hell, his own parents had sold him to an army of witchers to be put through something they knew he most likely wouldn’t survive, so why were some words shouted in misplaced anger tearing him apart?

Deep down, Jaskier knows. Has always known, in fact, as terrifying as that revelation is. No one else has managed to drag such strong emotions from him through his glamor; no one else has ever come back for him the way Geralt had for years. 

No one had ever taken the time to _see_ him the way Geralt had, albeit reluctantly at first.

It was just his luck that as soon as the mess in his heart is sorted out, someone else comes and sweeps the White Wolf off his feet and away from Jaskier’s side. 

Hating Yennefer for taking Geralt would be too easy. Placing all the blame of his shortcomings with Geralt on her would do none of them any good.

He can’t bring himself to truly hate her. She may be the catalyst in an explosive situation, but he’s not so blind to believe she is the root cause. Had Geralt not felt the way he so clearly does, then her presence wouldn’t have brought on what feels like the end of the world to Jaskier. 

Those thoughts must have been festering in Geralt’s mind for years before this, and Jaskier doesn’t know which is worse: the fact that Geralt allowed himself to be accompanied by a bard he barely tolerated, or putting up with Jaskier out of some sort of misguided pity. Either way, what’s done is done, and Jaskier is not about to stick around for Geralt to catch his second wind and rip into him once again.

He had forgiven him the first time Geralt abandoned him to sleep with a power hungry sorceress. He will not make that mistake again.

So, with one final teary, snot filled kiss to Roach’s forehead, Jaskier abandons his frivolous belongings that Geralt always hated and doesn’t look back, taking only the lute on his back and his songbook and quills. Pegasus throws her head a bit when it becomes clear Jaskier aims to separate them from Roach and the scent of home, but she’s easily persuaded into galloping away with a hint of axii.

Walking away is the lesser evil.

*

That winter, Jaskier throws himself into his music.

Melodies and poems flow from his head and through his arm onto his paper, page after page of rage filled tunes that would make an audience think him deranged should he ever attempt to sing these aloud. 

They’re theraputic in the same way alcohol is: better used as an occasional indulgence, not a crutch, so when Jaskier finally runs out of space in his songbook, he turns to the next available gig to keep himself so busy he doesn’t have time to think. 

The distraction works for as long as a week before he’s chomping at the bit to get out of Oxenfurt and _move_ , to satisfy the itch in his legs to leave everything behind and drive any memories of the sorceress and her witcher out of his head. It’s much easier said than done, of course, when every corner he turns in the damned city has a student or admirer coming up to him and begging for stories of the White Wolf and their travels together.

The first few times, Jaskier endured it.

The last couple times, Jaskier nearly lost it. 

After a grand total of two weeks, Jaskier can’t take it anymore and saddles up Pegasus and rides out through the gates of Oxenfurt.

The icy wind rips through his clothing and stings his cheeks as he forces himself to focus on the feeling instead of lamenting over his love for white haired witchers who don’t want him.

*

Slowly, so slowly Jaskier hadn’t picked up on the signs, the bard began to lose what gave him the creative spark he worked so hard for. 

Meadows filled with swaying dandelions inspire nothing in him - not a single line of prose, not a whiff of a tune prancing through his head. Instead, all that comes to him is a sense of finality. Not even the sight of the most round and luscious breasts on a milkmaid in some backwater hamlet inspire that creative itch he found himself experiencing at every turn when traveling at Geralt’s side.

Bard’s can’t survive off singing other musician’s songs. They can’t even call themselves bards in good conscience if they don’t keep creating, keep _pushing_ to find that one inspiration every student in Oxenfurt yearns for. 

A bard is nothing without their muse, Jaskier had lost his. 

*

Two years after being shouted down the side of a mountain, Jaskier has given up pretending to be the person he once was.

The only song he’s managed to come up with in that long span of time is nothing like the merry jigs and jaunty tunes he’s known for. This one is sung only during somber nights in taverns and throughout the halls of Oxenfurt, its haunting lyrics falling over crowds of listeners like the first blanket of snow in the winter. 

‘Her Sweet Kiss’ is an instant hit. Jaskier should be happy; taverns and street performers are singing his creation all over the Continent, warbling about his lost chance at love so often he doubts it'll ever be erased from public memory. 

Jaskier should be overjoyed. It’s what he aimed to accomplish when he set off for Oxenfurt for the first time, and yet...

All he feels is numb.

He is no longer Jaskier the Bard - not truly. Jaskier, the bright eyed young man who followed a legend and got his soul crushed in return is long gone, left abandoned at the base of King Niedamir’s Mountain. What remains is a mix of the scholar he forced himself to become and the witcher he was never meant to be. 

*

“I heard your new song.”

Jaskier makes a valiant effort to dispel the sour ale that had been sucked down his windpipe at the sound of a familiar voice beside him. It takes a few hacking coughs and punches against his sternum before he can finally breathe, only to glance over and see none other than Yennefer of fucking Vengerberg perched primply on the barstool next to him. 

Of course. As if his life wasn’t already shit enough. “I take it you have some not so constructive criticism to offer?” Jaskier snarks as he throws back the rest of his ale. If Yennefer has sought him out for something, there’s no way he’s going through the ensuing conversation completely sober, _especially_ after not having seen her for the past three years. 

He doesn’t want to hear about her and Geralt playing happy families.

Yennefer hums noncommittally before procuring a glass of what smells like Toussaint red out of thin air, her elegantly painted fingers cradling the stem as she swirls the liquid around in her glass. 

Jaskier takes the time to look at her, _really_ look at her. Three years isn’t long to people like them. And in true Yennefer fashion, she looks exactly the same as she had when Jaskier had last seen her on top of the mountain that dramatically changed the course of three people’s lives. She’s still breathtaking in the way all mages are; ageless skin and perfect, shiny hair, anything lacking being altered or made up for with magic. 

Anger and old wounds begin to fester in the pit of Jaskier’s stomach as she blatantly scrutinizes his raggy commoner’s clothes and thinner frame. “I didn’t come here to critique your frankly sickening song. I came to speak to you” Yennefer says eventually. Her purple eyes pin Jaskier into place effortlessly in the way they had when she had tried to kill him in order to capture a djinn. Jaskier snorts into his empty tankard even as he bristles at the critique of the song he poured his heartbreak into.

Jaskier doesn’t miss how she says ‘speak to’ instead of ‘speak with’, but he plays it off. “Why, dearest Yennefer, I didn’t know you desired my company so badly.”

“It’s not me who desires it.” 

“Oh? Well, you can tell your little mage friends that I’m not interested in playing word games with them.”

That retort seems to amuse Yennefer, one corner of her perfectly painted lips quirking in a sort of pseudo smile. “My ‘friends’ are not who want to speak to you either.”

Jaskier does not have the time for this. Sitting slumped over the bar and not nearly drunk enough to converse with the lover his own love threw him away for, Jaskier reaches his limit. “Not interested.” He retorts as he tucks himself into his drink, praying silently for the witch to take the hint and leave him to nurse his wounds in peace.

Of course, nothing could ever be that simple when it comes to Yennefer of Vengerberg. “It’s Geralt.”

And oh, how the sting in his chest aches anew at the mention of the one man on the Continent Jaskier wishes to never see again and simultaneously yearns for with every breath. 

Gods, he’s not drunk enough for this. 

“Yes, well.” Jaskier huffs as he takes a long swig of his disgusting ale, unwilling to even consider continuing this conversation without some liquid courage. “The last I’ve been told, I’m nothing but a shit shoveler and bring nothing but misery to those around me.”

That at least gives Yennefer pause. Of course she doesn’t falter or show any outward signs of being surprised, but there’s a certain sparkle in her eye that Jaskier interprets as interest. “Oh?” She hums. “Is that why you're not trailing after Geralt like a lost puppy any longer?”

The sharp slap of Jaskier’s empty tankard hitting the wooden countertop hard enough to dent the metal handle of the cup rings out between them, the hustle and bustle of the scarcely occupied tavern quieting for a few moments before conversations start back up again at a lower volume. “I am not discussing this with you.” Is all Jaskier says as he slides off his barstool and shoulders his lute from where he had it resting against the bar, the weight of it familiar across his back.

“I didn’t come here to fight.” Yennefer calls out to him even as he begins to ascend the stairs to the room he had rented earlier that night with the intention of playing for a few coins before taking off in the morning. 

Her words go in one ear and out the other as Jaskier barely restrains himself from taking the stairs three at a time just to get away from her faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think! I reread all the comments whenever I'm down and need inspiration to keep going. I hope you all have an awesome week and please stay safe out there!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s nothing short of a miracle that Jaskier manages to slip away from the tavern later that evening and into the night with everything he owns to his name on his back without being caught by Yennefer, if she’s even still there. 
> 
> Jaskier hadn’t bothered to check on his way out his room’s window. The thought of having to see the purple eyed sorceress again so soon doesn’t procure any other emotion than anger, and Jaskier is sick of having people who have everything he wants show up and throw it in his face like his own feelings don’t matter.
> 
> Like he hasn’t been put through enough already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is so short, the next one will be longer. Just had to set some things up!

It’s nothing short of a miracle that Jaskier manages to slip away from the tavern later that evening and into the night with everything he owns to his name on his back without being caught by Yennefer, if she’s even still there. 

Jaskier hadn’t bothered to check on his way out his room’s window. The thought of having to see the purple eyed sorceress again so soon doesn’t procure any other emotion than anger, and Jaskier is sick of having people who have everything he wants show up and throw it in his face like his own feelings don’t matter.

Like he hasn’t been put through enough already.

Nothing but fury races through his veins as he tears through the sleepy silent village and into the thick outcrop of trees preceding the dense woods surrounding it without a care, the thick darkness of night covering him as he weaves in between trees until enough distance is put between himself and that damn woman that he doesn’t feel as close to breaking with every breath. Pegasus’s concerned huffing noises go in one ear and out the other as she follows her owner into the thicket once he frees her from the stable she’d been in, her ears flicking back and forth in her anxiety.

How _dare_ Yennefer show up years after she tried to kill him and act like nothing happened? Like she hadn't ensnared Geralt and broken his heart time and time again without a care in the world and left Jaskier to the wind?

“It’s so like her to push herself into the lives of people who don’t want her there,” Jaskier mutters to himself under his breath as he finally comes to a tiny clearing just sheltered enough to be spared from the morning dew he knows will blanket the grass like snow come morning. 

“And right when I’m finally getting back on my feet, too,” Jaskier hisses as he stands in the middle of the little clearing and scrubs his hands over his face, allowing Pegasus to wander off to the other side of the clearing to graze. “Right when I finally feel like I can move on, she shows up.” His lute is gently placed against the old bark of a fallen log, his shaking hands unable to tarnish the sacred instrument even in the wake of his rage. 

From there, Jaskier makes quick work setting up camp. Well, if a hastily thrown together fire ignited with igni and a sad, threadbare bedroll can be called a camp. 

Jaskier is under no delusions. Light from his campsite or not, if Yennefer truly wants to find him, then he knows she’ll have no trouble at all. 

The woman is as tenacious as she is terrifying, but like hell he’ll let her take him off guard again.

*

Jaskier isn’t able to avoid the purple eyed sorceress for long.

A mere few hours pass before he’s dragged out of his meditative state and into a panic as the air around his meager campsite crackles with chaos. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end as he pushes himself to his feet and steadies himself just in time to nearly be blown back by a portal bursting into existence a mere foot or two away from where his bedroll is. 

And, of course, Yennefer of Vengerberg steps out from within its depths.

“Not quite as nice a setup as you had back at the inn,” Yennefer remarks as the swirling portal behind her closes and she steps into the light of the bonfire, the orange hues bouncing off her perfectly done up face in a facade of beauty. 

Her overwhelming scent of lilac and gooseberries brings back the bitter scent of tears atop a mountain long ago abandoned, the smell of burning, acrid smoke surrounding Geralt like a cloak of anger. 

Seeing her brings him back to the day the life he had built for himself over countless years crumbled right in front of his eyes. Brings back the raw memory of baring his soul to Geralt, asking him to be whisked away to the coast where they could be free for a week or two.

And, of course, the harsh rejection that followed. 

Jaskier doesn’t grace her with a response. Instead he begins to pack up camp without a word, hastily rolling up his bedroll and whistling for Pegasus to come to him so he can strap it to her saddle and be off. Nervous and twitchy hands wrestle with the worn fabric of it as he feels piercing violet eyes stare holes into his back, the sensation only serving to infuriate him more. 

Finally, the silence is too thick to take. “Did you come here for a reason other than to ruin my week? Surely you’re not here for some well mannered banter after all these years.” Jaskier snarks, dropping his bedroll to the ground and throwing his hands up in frustration when Pegasus simply stares at Yennefer and refuses to come any closer to the witch. 

She’s a smart horse. Jaskier doesn’t blame her.

“Geralt is looking for you.”

Jaskier hates how his heart drops into his stomach and his teeth clench in an effort to hold back a scream at the mere mention of his old muse’s name. His jaw aches with the effort it takes to not grind his teeth into a fine dust as the memory of being told Geralt’s entire life’s worth of misery was his fault; a shit shoveler is what he was called if Jaskier recalls correctly. 

“He doesn’t wish to see me.” Jaskier replies coldly as he turns his head away from her in a clear dismissal. He’d allowed her to get under his skin once that day; he won’t let it happen again. Not when he feels like a single stray breeze could knock him to his knees.

Debilitatingly deep exhaustion seeps into the marrow of his bones as four years of running from what he considers his home, his _life_ finally catches up to him. His ragged, dirty street clothes don’t make him appear any more sane as he scrubs his dirty palms over his face in an effort to ward off the tears he can feel springing to the surface of his sleep deprived eyes. 

“He’s been searching for you for years now. You’re a very elusive bard to track down when you want to be.” Yennefer replies in a softer voice, almost as though she’s responding to his visible distress.

But that just isn’t possible. Yennefer doesn’t have a caring bone in her body. If she did, then she wouldn’t have done half the things she’s done to both him and Geralt. 

And she says that as though it’s a compliment. Coming from anyone else on the Continent it would be taken as such, but coming from Yennefer, it’s just a slap in the face. Nothing the woman does is for the sake of being generous. Her every word is a double edged sword; her intentions clear as day to those who can look past her beauty. 

“Oh?” He drawls, forcibly keeping his rage in check as he pins his stare on the sorceress who set in motion a path for Geralt that left everything taken from them both. “Then why are _you_ here if he’s been searching for me for so long?”

“Geralt is… tied up at the moment.” Yennefer answers cryptically. “He had to put a pause on actively searching for you. As you know, Nilfgaard isn’t the type to rest until they’ve claimed what they believe they’re owed.”

Knowing Yennefer for so long allows Jaskier to see past her bullshit. “Well, I can’t thank you enough for the straight answers.” He snarks. “Now if you’re done spouting riddles that are bad enough to make a Grave Hag sick, I have places to be.”

As always, Yennefer doesn’t give him a straight answer. She merely waves her hand and seats herself primly on a log across from where Jaskier is standing, crossing her legs and not breaking his gaze. “You’re bitter.” She says instead after a few moments of silence. 

Unbidden, a snort tears its way out of Jaskier. It sounds suspiciously close to a sob. “‘Bitter’, she says,” he shakes his head as his gaze lands on his lute and lingers for a painful few beats. “That’s one word for it, I suppose.”

Violet eyes done up with elegant makeup study him. “You don’t believe me.” The witch says after a few moments. “That he’s searching for you.”

The idea of Geralt searching high and low for him makes his heart ache in a way he thought he’d gotten over long ago, when he had been steadily losing weight due to malnourishment caused by the spark for creativity leaving him as cruelly and swiftly as the man he’d become to believe was his home. The fact that Geralt might _want_ to see him after everything that had been said and done is…

It’s a lot. It’s a lot, and Jaskier just can’t bring himself to believe her. 

His heart couldn’t take being shattered a second time by his love.

“I believe that’s the first thing you’ve ever been right about.” Jaskier snarks to cover up the quiver in his voice, refusing to show weakness to someone who exclusively preys on the weak willed. 

Yennefer simply gives him an unimpressed look which, alright, is fair enough. His attempt at redirection is laughable at best. “He couldn’t find you.” She replies. “It drove him so mad that he finally resorted to reaching out to me in order to locate you, whether he’d be finding a corpse or a healthy bard. Burst through the door into the cottage I was staying in and demanded I locate you. He heard a rumor about a bard being robbed and killed and he thought it could be you.”

Unable to help himself, Jaskier dusts himself off and turns on his heel to make his way to his stubborn horse. It’s the only way he can think of to keep Yennefer from seeing his expression. “A part of me _did_ die on the mountain that day. You can tell Geralt I’m no longer here - won’t make much of a difference anyway.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic, bard.” Yennefer snorts. “You’re alive and well. Geralt would know I’m lying.”

Jaskier can’t take being in her presence any longer. Her tone is so condescending whether she means it to be or not, and Jaskier is not proud of how he whirls around to face her, his eyes bloodshot from trying not to break down into sobs and his frame more lanky than it’s been in decades. “ _Melodramatic_? You think I’m being _melodramatic?_ ” Jaskier repeats in a disbelieving tone, his hands aching for the cold sensation of steel and silver in his grasp if only for the momentary reprieve of taking out his frustrations on the forestry around them. “Have you ever had your heart ripped out, Yennefer? Have you ever given yourself fully to someone, supported them and loved them with nothing but detriment to yourself and not a single warm word of praise?”

The sorceress opens her mouth as though to answer but Jaskier cuts her off before she can form a word. 

“You know what, I don’t care if you have. No matter what you’ve been through in life, you don’t get to treat people the way you have been and get away with it. Geralt is…” Jaskier sucks in a deep breath through trembling lips, “Geralt is a good man. The best man with the most noble soul I’ve ever met. He was my _world_ Yennefer, and then you came in like a storm and took away his self assurance and heart as collateral.”

At this, at least, Yennefer finally begins to show some emotion other than boredom. Violet eyes flash in irritation for a moment before her perfect mask is in place once again, her smooth skin hiding the anger he can smell wafting from her in waves. “Do not speak to me like that.” She says harshly. 

A moment of tense silence strains between them.

All Jaskier can do is laugh. Pegasus’s reins feel cold and sharp in his palm as he guides her over to the log where he’d stashed his lute against to keep it safe from the elements, barely bothering to acknowledge Yennefer’s presence as he grabs it and lovingly attaches it to his horses saddle, still huffing disbelieving chuckles as he does so. 

She is not worth his time. If his years spent trailing after the White Wolf have taught him anything, it’s that he needs to work on not giving his time and attention to those who do nothing but bring him down. 

And oh, has she brought him down. Perhaps not on purpose most of the time aside from the one time she actively tried to kill him, but she had. And her story of Geralt just doesn’t add up to the years of trailing after the white haired witcher, bearing every insult and snide remark thrown at him on the road while forcing himself to let them roll off his shoulders. Forced himself to not show Geralt how badly his words cut him. 

Yennefer does not smell like she’s lying. There’s no musty stale scent Jaskier came to recognize long ago as an aroma associated with someone who is lying to him. In fact, she even sounds sincere in her reasons for seeking him out. 

Or at least the reasons she’s admitting to.

Still, Jaskier knows himself and his fragile hold on his emotions, his grasp on his self control made even thinner after he’d been discarded and rejected. Seeing Geralt again so soon would send him off the cliff he’d just barely managed to hang onto to avoid toppling head first into the depths of his emotions below.

Pegasus eyes the sorceress warily as Jaskier finishes packing up his sparse belongings and makes a move to mount his horse and ride far, far away from this storm disguised as a woman.

He’s just about to set his foot into a stirrup when Yennefer speaks. 

“I know what you are.”

Jaskier’s foot misses the stirrup and lands heavily back onto the grassy earth. Everything around them goes silent. Birds cease their singing and the insects stop their cries; even the trees are still as no gentle breezes ruffle their leaves. Even if he wanted to move, it would be impossible; Jaskier’s feet might as well be rooted to the soil below his boots. 

There are few moments in Jaskier’s life when he’s felt true and utter terror. His first brush with the all consuming emotion was when he’d learned of Dandelion’s fate, witnessed his birth family devour the one positive thing he had in his life. The second was when he was led to a crumbling fortress teeming with terrified boys and mutant slave drivers masquerading as master witchers. The third was when that manor crumbled on Yennefer and Geralt during their battle with the djinn, leaving behind a cloud of dust and stone where the man he had begun to see as his home used to be. 

And the fourth is now. 

“I’m glad my reputation as a decorated bard and lover precedes me.” Jaskier chokes out, knowing full well he doesn’t sound the least bit convincing. 

And if Yennefer’s hum is anything to go by, she doesn’t buy it either. “Geralt brought you to me to save your life.” She states plainly, as though discussing the weather and not a decades long secret Jaskier was planning to take to his grave. “I had to force you into unconsciousness to heal what the djinn had done. There isn’t a safe way of doing so without using chaos, and that in itself comes with side effects.”

Jaskier doesn't quite know what she's getting at, but to be fair, her words sound like the ocean in his ears as he comes to terms with the fact that his life is about to be over. 

There’s no way Geralt would ever want to look for him if he knew the truth- if he really was searching for the wayward bard in the first place.

Somehow, against his better judgement, Jaskier is beginning to believe the sorceress.

“And, what, you just decided to root through my memories without my permission before you planned on killing me for a djinn?” He huffs out in a hollow laugh.

And Yennefer appears almost... _guilty_? Her expression doesn’t change, but Jaskier can see the way her eyes soften just a tad, just enough to show something resembling regret. “It was not my choice to peek into your most painful memories. It’s… chaos is something that needs to be controlled, yes, but sometimes, things can’t be avoided.”

The trembling in his hands slowly works its way throughout his body, each limb tensing and untensing in preparation to face a threat he can’t convince his instincts isn’t coming. 

“You saw my memories.” Jaskier repeats hollowly.

“Yes.”

Jaskier swallows around the lump in his throat. Yennefer… there’s no way for him to know just how much she saw without asking, yet his tongue feels like ash in his mouth. “How much.” He demands in a voice that sounds more like a plea.

The purple eyed sorceress doesn’t break his gaze as she utters the words he was dreading. “All of it.”

The ground beneath his feet seems to sway in a sickening back and forth as Jaskier forces himself to remain standing and absorb what he’s just heard.

The witch had seen every memory he actively pushes from his mind every day, saw what he had done in Kerack and every moment after. Saw what Geralt had shouted at him on the mountain that fateful day; saw his memories of the breakdown he’d had at the base of King Neidamir’s mountain with Roach.

Fuck.

Yennefer makes a show of inspecting her perfectly manicured nails. For once Jaskier appreciates her vanity - it gives him a few extra seconds to get himself under control. “I never would have pictured you as the Mad Cat of Kerack. That ring must be enchanted with very strong magic in order to provide such a believing glamor for a witcher.” 

And there went the control he’d just been managing to get back. 

A full body shudder rips through Jaskier like lightning, a wound that had barely begun to close in the decades since he’d left that blasted hamlet flaring open and bleeding once again. “ _Don’t call me that._ ” He hisses through clenched teeth, body coiling as though ready to flee at a moment's notice.

Out of all the people roaming the Continent - every creature, every plant and every construct - Yennefer is the one person Jaskier never wanted to tell his secret to. The sorceress knowing something so valuable and potentially life ruining about him is like setting a land mine in the hands of a child and telling them not to throw it.

“Then you must believe me,” Yennefer announces as she pushes herself to her feet and dusts off her dress. “When I say that I’m not here to cause you pain. There is... an individual who needs protection. Geralt and I can’t do it alone, Jaskier. Sodden has drained me too much to be of much use.”

Jaskier almost can’t believe what he’s hearing. His head feels like it had been baked in the sun for an entire month, his mind so jumbled with the twists and turns that come with conversing with Yennefer that he almost doesn’t catch onto what she’s saying until he focuses on the mention of Geralt. “So what you’re telling me,” Jaskier begins, throwing his arms out to his sides in incredulous hysteria, “what you’re telling me is that you came to find me because you _need my help?_ ” 

Yennefer’s silence is enough of an answer. 

“Unbelievable. So you try to kill me to capture a djinn, destroy the heart of the most kind man I've ever met, play with others and force them to do your bidding and _now_ you’re asking for my _help_ after telling me you essentially viewed my memories without permission?”

The sorceress straightens up a bit. “I’ve already explained to you-”

“Yes, yes, chaos and all that,” Jaskier interrupts, “Really, Yennefer dearest, you’re not someone I pictured feeling the need to repeat themselves.”

“ _Jaskier._ ” Yennefer hisses irritably, clearly nearing the end of her rope when it comes to her patience. 

It’s not a surprise that it’s as short as Geralt’s. 

Jaskier takes a moment to sort his thoughts out, his head nearly aching with all the surprises that had been thrown at him within the past twenty four hours. Whatever situation is going on with Yennefer and Geralt, it must be especially bad if the sorceress is the one asking for help. Then again, apparently Geralt has been searching for him; perhaps it’s just a coincidence the witch was the one to find him first. 

“This person,” Jaskier begins warily, fists clenching and unclenching by his sides just to wring out the itch he feels. “Who are they?”

Yennefer, thankfully, spares him the agony of not knowing. “Your witcher’s Child Surprise.”

Jaskier just about chokes when she reveals the identity of the person she and Geralt apparently need help protecting. “ _Cirilla?_ ” He gapes. The last he’d checked, Geralt was doing an impressive job of trying to outrun destiny and have nothing to do with his Child Surprise- yet another thing Jaskier supposedly shoveled into his life. 

The confusion warring with disbelief must show on his face because Yennefer’s tense posture relaxes a bit. “Yes. They’re headed to Kaer Morhen where she’ll be safe, but I overexerted myself. I can’t protect her as I am right now.” The mage sounds pained admitting this, but Jaskier is still stuck on the fact that Geralt, chronically allergic-to-destiny Geralt, had found his Child Surprise and was actively attempting to escort her to the witcher keep. “There’s been rumors of a powerful lord hiring a renowned assassin to get rid of Geralt and capture the princess.”

With nothing but a flick of her wrist, Yennefer procures an achingly familiar silver object from thin air in the space between them. The sparse light of the moon glints off the steel dagger Jaskier remembers leaving behind in a mess of his clothes and perfumes on the base of the mountain. 

“Geralt wouldn’t part with this willingly.” Yennefer says in a soft voice, her purple gaze unwavering as she watches Jaskier reach out for the dagger and take it gingerly. Her forehead glistens with a thin sheen of sweat- Jaskier realizes with a start that opening a portal and procuring his dagger from Melietele knows where had worn her out when he knows from past experience how much havoc she can wreak without so much as a bat of her eyelashes. 

She’s telling the truth. Now that Jaskier can see past the red tinted rage that had blinded him at first upon seeing her, it’s obvious that she’s in pain. She’s still dressed like royalty and her face is done up just as it always is, but there’s tension around her eyes and she’s favoring one side, almost as though she’d been wounded on the other and it hasn't healed properly yet. 

The violet eyed sorceress continues. “Geralt refused to, in fact. He said it still smells of your misery and perfume.”

That at least gets Jaskier to crack a small smile. How typical of Geralt to carry around something that reminds him of how badly he messed up, torturing himself day after day as penance for what he’d done. “That fucking idiot.”

“Indeed.” Yennefer agrees as she turns her back to open another portal. “Someone very strong is after her.” Yennefer’s voice is low in warning, and Jaskier can’t help but listen. “Nilfgaard is after all of us as well, me included. I don’t doubt they’re after the White Wolf’s bard too.”

The very thought of being captured by Nilfgaard and having their resident mages work their way into his head to find out where his witcher is hiding is enough to make a cold sweat run down his back and under his arms. 

Witcher or not, that kingdom is terrifying. “And this person isn’t someone the almighty sorceress of Vengerberg can fight yourself?” 

Painted lips purse into a thin line as Yennefer huffs. “My magic doesn’t have as strong an effect on them as it should; especially with me still recovering.”

And that’s about all she says on the matter. Jaskier is left to stand in the middle of his makeshift campsite with his abandoned dagger and his confused horse as he watches her gingerly step into the swirling portal of chaos. The cool metal of the silver dagger Geralt had crafted with his own two hands one winter so many years ago is a heavy weight in Jaskier’s hand, the decorated hilt of it smooth and familiar. 

So achingly familiar.

“They’ve left Dillingen and are headed to Brugge.” Yennefer calls over her shoulder before she disappears into her portal and is off to Melitele knows where. “Keep them safe, Jaskier. I’ll be waiting for you at Kaer Morhen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Lemme know your predictions for what's going to happen- I'm really interested to know if I'm making it obvious or not haha. 
> 
> As always, have an awesome day and keep smiling! :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer hasn’t told Geralt his secret.
> 
> There had been no confession from her about sharing his sin. He was sure he’d know if she had. 
> 
> She wouldn’t go out of her way to ask his help in protecting Cirilla if Geralt didn’t want anything to do with him. And there was no doubt in Jaskier’s mind that Geralt, if he really _was_ searching for him, the white haired man wouldn’t want to be around him if he knew.
> 
> Geralt is a man of truth. For all his sarcasm and scathing words, he’s good at heart and first in line to help someone despite refusing to get involved.
> 
> That being said, he’s a man who loathes being lied to, and Jaskier’s true identity is the epitome of something Geralt would find unforgivable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with another chapter! Thank you to everyone who read and commented on this fic, I love you all dearly!

Yennefer hasn’t told Geralt his secret.

There had been no confession from her about sharing his sin. He was sure he’d know if she had. 

She wouldn’t go out of her way to ask his help in protecting Cirilla if Geralt didn’t want anything to do with him. And there was no doubt in Jaskier’s mind that Geralt, if he really _was_ searching for him, the white haired man wouldn’t want to be around him if he knew.

Geralt is a man of truth. For all his sarcasm and scathing words, he’s good at heart and first in line to help someone despite refusing to get involved.

That being said, he’s a man who loathes being lied to, and Jaskier’s true identity is the epitome of something Geralt would find unforgivable. 

Still, there’s something to be said about Yennefer lowering herself from her self perceived pedestal in order to beg him to protect Geralt and his ward. That has to count for something, no matter how much he dislikes her and what she’s done.

Yennefer doesn’t do anything without putting in her all.

Jaskier had been given a front row seat to the way the sorceress and the white haired witcher clashed like oil and water when they don’t agree on something (which is most of the time,) so with that fact in mind, it’s highly unlikely she told another soul about the memories she saw.

It’s… nice, he supposes, that for all her power hungry tendencies, she at least has some semblance of decorum when it comes to things like this. 

Her willingness to keep his true nature a secret doesn’t make him feel any better, however. 

If anything, it only enrages him further.

*

The early morning forest bathed in soft pinks is silent as Jaskier storms through it like a whirlwind, not a single squirrel or forest creature daring to cross his path as he shoulders his way past large tree trunks and through thorn bushes with single minded focus. 

He’d had two days to come to terms with what it is he has to do, who he will have to see. Two days spent walking non stop, avoiding towns and other living creatures while being entirely lost in his own mind, endless memories of doing the exact same thing beside Geralt of Rivia taunting him at every turn.

Pretending to stumble upon the White Wolf and his ward and playing ignorant when and if he does eventually locate them leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Geralt had asked life for one blessing; the only thing he’d ever requested of Jaskier with such conviction.

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands._

It’s hard to pretend to suddenly drop into the witcher’s life after being told something life altering like that. 

That being said, there’s a very strong likelihood Geralt would pitch a fit and refuse help even if he needs it, and Jaskier isn’t sure Cirilla would welcome him with open arms either. Both of them are surely damaged, both mentally and physically from having been on the run for so long, and Jaskier doesn’t want to assume his presence is welcome. 

After all, what proof did he have that it had ever been anything but merely tolerated? All the years he thought Geralt was his friend were apparently one sided, so painfully one sided in fact that Jaskier would rather die a horrible death than have to subject Geralt to his apparently ‘shit shoveling’ presence again. 

No matter how much his heart cried out for the man who left a witcher sized hole at his side when he left.

A stray branch with an unfortunately large amount of sharp bristles smacks him in the cheek as he shoulders past a thick hedge, the spikes nicking his skin and bringing blood pearling to the surface.

Jaskier ignores the sting.

Pegasus makes a huffing noise behind him when he doesn’t falter and continues soldiering on.

If Geralt and Cirilla are truly in danger, he shouldn’t loiter around and wait for something terrible to happen.

It’s not like he could sleep anyway.

The tumultuous cocktail of emotions that had been stirred up the moment baby blue eyes met fiery violet in that tavern makes his stomach feel weighed down, almost as though he’d swallowed handfuls of rocks with how heavy and unsettled his chest is. 

Suppressing the trembling in his limbs when all he wanted to do was _run_ would make it worse. Jaskier knows; he’s suppressed many feelings in the centuries he’s been alive.

Yet when it comes to Geralt, everything is so much more intense, so much more consuming. 

Yennefer’s words ring in his ears as Jaskier puts as much distance as possible between himself and where the witch once stood, allowing Pegasus to trail after him as he continues on foot after a moment to sip some water from his waterskin, needing to burn off the excessive energy his anger gave him before it completely consumes him.

Well. He supposes the silver lining in all of this is that Cirilla is in the most capable hands on the Continent. 

Early on in his career as a bard, Calanthe had invited him to perform at various celebrations in Cintra during the winter months. Jaskier thanks his lucky stars the fierce queen still allowed him after what Geralt had done on the eve of Pavetta’s betrothal.

Without her invitations to perform, he wouldn’t have been able to keep an eye on the princess.

He’d only been able to visit a handful of times when she was around, and when she began to get a handful of seasons under her belt, he’d been invited less and less.

Perhaps it was the whispers of Nilfgaard that caused Calathe to become more cautious with who she invited into her kingdom, or maybe it just took a few years for her to truly come to loathe him just as she did Geralt. Whatever her reasoning, Jaskier can still remember the bright and curious green eyes of young Cirilla when he’d play her favorite songs on her name day, sneaking her various snacks the queen would have beheaded him for providing her. 

Guilt at assuming she’d died in the fall of Cintra nags at Jaskier, making a space in his heart right beside his rage, gnawing at him when he realizes that he hadn’t bothered to search for her, so caught up in his own head and problems that it hadn’t even crossed his mind. 

“Guess I’m just as bad as Geralt, huh?” He huffs deprecatingly at Pegasus, who merely snorts at him in return.

Speaking to his horse doesn’t bring the same kind of calm it usually does. For as much as he teased Geralt about talking to his horse and preferring to do so over speaking with humans, he understands. 

No horse could yell at you or run you out of town.

The nips Pegasus takes at his hair to get him to slow down go unnoticed until he scents a waft of something unnatural in the gentle breeze, the hair on his arms standing on end at the sheer _wrongness_ of it. 

He’s smelled it before. Many times, in fact, though more so when traveling beside the White Wolf.

“Fuck,” He spits under his breath as he speeds up his march, branches whipping past him as he scents the air, catching onto the faint traces of something other than the normal cedar and damp grass smell of the woods he’d been surrounded by for the past few days.

He’d smelled them here a few miles back but hadn’t recognized it at first, the rotted flesh scent unforgettable even to a human’s nose yet not registering with Jaskier until he’s nearly upon them. 

Underneath the acrid scent of rotting flesh was the coppery hint of fresh blood.

Human blood.

Pegasus stays far enough away by a ditch that houses rotted parts of a wagon just beside the barely traveled path, safe and out of harm's way as Jaskier unsheathes his silver dagger, quickly locating the nest of Nekkers and beginning to tear them apart as they come out of their hiding place in droves and try to attack him en masse, toying with them just long enough to release some pent up anger that furiously pacing through the woods hadn’t diminished.

The grass around the Nekker’s hideout runs red with blood as Jaskier picks them off one by one, the whole horde of them screeching and trying their hardest to take out the mad witcher that had descended upon them seemingly out of nowhere. 

The Jaskier decades ago would have felt hesitation upon dealing the deadly blows, for most creatures roaming the Continent only kill to survive. The Jaskier now can smell the faint traces of human blood around the entrance to their home, and can smell the sickly sweet smell of rotting flesh that had been baking in the sun. 

Can smell how young the human was. 

“Come on, you can do better than this.” Jaskier taunts the last remaining creatures into charging him, expertly dancing around their enraged swipes and gargled screams. 

Instinct that had been beaten into him at a young age emerges from its dormant state, a sensation not unlike a rush overcoming Jaskier’s body as he parrys and easily dodges swipes that would fatally wound a human. 

There were not many years in which he walked the Path. Far less than most other witchers he knows, yet abandoning the sole reason he was made into a monster doesn’t make him any less adept at taking down what he was created to destroy.

Even back then on the Path, Nekkers were more of a pest than an actual challenge.

Their tribes could get irritating if there were enough of them, but they were fairly easy targets, their brains not as developed as some of the other creatures towns set out contracts on. 

None of that matters. With how much fury enhanced energy he has ripping through his veins, the Nekkers never stand a chance.

*

The alderman of the closest hamlet is left with the heads of a horde of Nekkers on his doorstep before the early morning light reaches the treetops, all traces of their killer gone come daylight.

*

Two weeks later, Jaskier thinks Yennefer was just full of shit.

He’d made it to Dillingen, a day’s ride away from Brugge, somewhere around early evening where she said Geralt and Cirilla would be found, weary and more than ready for a nice bath and a good nights’ sleep. 

Even witchers need an actual bed sometimes. Meditating for two weeks worth of time he should have been actually sleeping isn't doing him any favors.

Jaskier has no idea how Geralt had done it during all the years they’d traveled together.

“My good sir,” Jaskier chirps with forced cheer as he throws open the door to the town’s only inn and strides up to the innkeeper behind the bar, the burly man in the middle of cleaning dirty tankards. “I’m searching for a friend, have you seen him? His horse is brown with a white stripe on her nose, goes by the lovely moniker ‘Roach’. He’s traveling with my daughter, you see, and was supposed to meet me here.”

The portly innkeeper studies him for a moment, his brown eyed gaze zeroing in on Jaskier’s tattered and raggy clothing before sweeping up his form to linger on the spotless lute strapped across his back. His forehead creases in confusion for a moment before it smooths out. “Ain’t seen no one like that.” He shrugs in response before going back to his cleaning.

Jaskier tamps down on the urge to shake the man. “Surely you must have seen him? Tall, heartbreakingly broad, acts almost allergic to speaking?”

A weird look passes over the man’s face before the beginning hints of irritation begin to show in the man’s scent. “We don’t much get visitors. Sorry son, can’t help ya.” 

There isn’t much more Jasker could say to describe Geralt without putting him and his Child Surprise in potential danger. They’re far enough from Nilfgaard to keep out of danger’s immediate clutches, but word can travel devastatingly quickly when one or more parties involved likely have substantial bounties on their heads. 

Using Axii to force the man to tell him everything he knows is tempting. Jaskier can’t smell a lie on the man but that doesn’t mean he isn’t omitting information.

Regardless, he thanks the man and takes a seat at the almost empty tavern across the street, aiming for a quick meal that isn’t random forest plants he vaguely recognizes as non poisonous before heading back out to search for the White Wolf and his princess. 

The tankard placed in front of him by a lovely half elf is full of what Jaskier hopes is ale as he knocks it back, knowing no matter what it is it wouldn’t hold a candle to White Gull in its potence.

And, yes, it takes like watered down piss, but he’s thirsty. It’s not the worst thing he’s ever had to drink.

Snippets of conversation from the few other tavern inhabitants buzz in his ears as he nurses his drink, nothing of note catching his interest. 

The tavern itself looks similar to the one he’d been in when Yennefer decided to come crashing back into his life. The floor is just as sticky and he can’t focus on trying to parse one scent from another, the mingling mess giving him a headache the more he tries to make out any familiar hints of horse and blade oil.

“I’m telling you,” A little blonde boy whines near the bar, his voice higher pitched than the ones of the men huddled in the corner playing Gwent, making him stand out. Jaskier’s ears focus on the boy as he glances over at the kid, the rags he’s wearing suggesting he’s either a child of one of the tavern workers or just an orphan. “I saw one of those witchmen! ” 

The half elf who served him ale stops her rounds to simply ruffle his hair with a fond, “Yes, I’m sure you did, Olek.” 

“But I really did! I’m telling the truth this time!”

The boy’s mother clearly doesn’t believe him but is giving the child an amused half smile to appease him. “And where did you see this witchman?” She indulges him as she continues bringing tankards to the other few mingling guests, her son hot on her heels and tugging at the back of her skirts. 

“In the forest by Old Nan’s house! He was big and had two swords and a bigger horse. He was talking to a kid like me and picking plants!” The boy rambles. 

Jaskier doesn’t need to eavesdrop any longer. In a flash he’s out of his seat and halfway to the door before he remembers ale isn’t free and he’s not performing for his meal. He roughly tosses probably too many coins out of his nearly empty coin purse on the table before fleeing the tavern in hot pursuit of the man he wants to see most in the world while simultaneously fighting back nausea at the thought of seeing him once again. 

Dusk settles around the backwater hamlet he’s in like a slightly smelly blanket, the scent of unwashed people and farm animals burning his nares and nearly making his eyes water.

Still, the smell doesn’t impede his ability to see even as the sun begins to descend behind the forest trees, slowly but surely leeching the warmth of daylight out of the air and leaving the wind with more of a bite to it as night nears.

Pegasus is none too pleased to be on the move again after such a short respite. As soon as he unties her from the post outside the tavern she digs her hooves in and throws her head when Jaskier tries to lead her into the woods he’s nearly certain the child had been talking about.

“Pegasus, we don’t have time for this!” Jaskier scolds his horse as she continues throwing her head back in defiance, her tail swishing audibly through the air in short choppy bursts to show her irritation. “I know girl, I know you’re tired and you deserve an entire field of carrots, but we’re almost there. Please don’t let me lose them.” 

The mare is obviously less than thrilled with her owner continually trying to tug her into the thick foliage at the base of the forest, but eventually she begrudgingly follows Jaskier into the dark, nearly struggling to keep up with him as he turns his nose to the air and begins a mad search for the White Wolf and his Child Surprise. 

*

The moon is full in the sky above the treetops when Jaskier concedes that perhaps he’d jumped into action a bit prematurely. 

There were faint scents of Geralt and Roach drifting around the forest, but with each gentle breeze that rolled through the leaves, the scent would change direction and concentrate somewhere he was sure he’d already checked. 

Panic and an underlying jolt of anxiety make Jaskier’s palms sweat as he rounds on the same tree he’d passed twice already. 

Had the child truly been mistaken? Had what he’d said all just been a startlingly accurate ruse, a ploy to get his mother’s attention? Jaskier feels almost mad with worry when passing by a large oak tree has him stop dead in his tracks. 

The scent of horse and three week old sweat almost slaps him in the face as soon as he nears the tree facing in the direction of Brugge.

It’s a pungent scent, one humans carry around with them more often than not in parts where water isn’t readily available.

The lingering hints of old leather, dried monster blood, and thinly veiled chaos are less common.

The faint mumbled swears being hissed under someone’s breath by a gently trickling stream over the roaring in his ears would have been inaudible to anyone else, but to Jaskier, the person may as well have been screaming right in his ear. 

Geralt’s voice is the one sound in the world he would recognize immediately. 

Fuck, he hadn’t actually managed to work out how he was going to do this. 

Yennefer had been adamant that Geralt and Cirilla were both in danger. Nilfgaard is the obvious aggressor in the situation with the sacking of Cintra, but the witch hadn’t mentioned anything else that could be after them. Was he meant to follow them at a distance and make sure they don’t get separated? Was he meant to fight against a powerful foe that Yennefer hadn’t mentioned?

Perhaps he should have demanded more answers before she fucked off to Kaer Morhen. 

Jaskier should have done many things, but he doesn’t get the time to ponder all his shortcomings when Geralt’s familiar smell hits him like a slap to the face, much more potent than before as he creeps toward the sound of the older man’s voice, mindful to keep out of sight and silent on his feet in a way he hasn’t had to be in years.

Through the thick foliage, Jaskier keeps just around the perimeter of what he guesses Geralt’s senses reach, careful to tiptoe around to not alert the witcher or the little girl fretting over him but unwilling to let them out of his sight. 

“I _told_ you,” He hears Cirilla scolding a shirtless, unkempt and malnourished looking Geralt as he cleans out a rather nasty wound spanning from around his collar bone down to his elbow in the stream, the skin flayed and the gash uneven in a way that suggests it wasn’t a human who had inflicted it, but a creature of some sort. 

Jaskier’s own shoulder aches in sympathy. 

“Had to get coin,” He hears Geralt grumble as he dumps a good amount of swallow on the gaping wound before knocking the rest of it back with a grimace. “Can’t survive without it for long.”

Cirilla looks unimpressed. “No amount of coin is worth you getting hurt.” She says defiantly even as Gearlt growls at his empty swallow vial and curses some more. “Besides, if we’re really that low on coin we could sell my cloak or some herbs or something.”

At least he doesn’t argue with her. The Geralt Jaskier remembers would have snapped back at him for a comment like that, telling him to shut up and to not put his nose in witcher business, but the Geralt in front of him now only grits his teeth against the pain and hastily rises to his feet to wander back to his saddlebags and place the empty vial inside with his other potions.

Jaskier can smell from where he’s hiding that something isn't right with the swallow potion Geralt just took. The scent isn’t acrid enough, not as caustic as it should be. Perhaps Geralt hadn’t had enough ingredients and did the best he could with what he had?

Whatever the reason, it leaves behind a slight burning sensation in his throat and nares. Not as potent as it should be, but the bitter potion is at least strong enough to smell like death warmed over.

Gods, Jaskier did _not_ miss that smell.

“We are _not_ traveling with you like this,” Cirilla begins to protest as she catches Geralt readying Roach to undoubtedly press on despite the gaping wound on his person. As it is, the man can barely stand without swaying, no doubt a side effect from blood loss and exhaustion. “I can’t catch you if you fall off your horse, you weigh four times as much as I do.”

“Won’t fall.” Geralt grumbles even as he visibly deflates at the scolding, and whether it’s from pain or the fact that he’s being told what to do by a child, Jaskier doesn’t know, but Geralt doesn’t make a move to continue setting up Roach’s tack with their sparse belongings. 

It’s… surprising, to say the least.

Many a night had been spent over the years in the woods with Geralt lying down on his side and Jaskier stitching up the latest battle wound of the week, nearly having to force the white haired man to remain still and stop trying to mount Roach and leave before being properly cleaned up.

Melitele knows how the man hadn’t died from an infection before Jaskier traveled with him, witcher mutations or not. 

“You can’t promise that.” Cirilla says. “Please just rest for a bit until the potion kicks in, at least,” the girl continues as she goes about unloading the only bedroll from Roach’s back, her slender fingers fumbling in the dark that’s finally shrouded them all in an inky black, the only light visible being provided by the full moon. 

She manages to set out Geralt’s bedroll by muscle memory and touch alone, her eyes not adept at seeing in the dark like he knows witchers can. Geralt makes no comment as he rolls his shoulder a few times, grimacing at the undoubtedly painful tug on his torn skin but needing to assess that no bones had been broken. 

It’s an arduous process stitching up his own arm with his non dominant hand. Cirilla is a quick learner, Jaskier knows, but this is something she shouldn't have to deal with. The poor girl had seen enough blood on the people she’s loved in the past few months than anyone has the right to, and Jaskier is somewhat proud of Geralt for his refusal to allow her access to the needle.

The stitch job is sloppy at best. Even from where he’s crouched behind some thankfully thick bushes, Jaskier can see the jagged and uneven lines of the stitches standing out black in stark contrast to the witcher’s pale skin. Geralt must be absolutely exhausted from whatever concoction he’d taken before going on his hunt to produce such shoddy work, and Jaskier has to bite back the urge to wander into the clearing and fix the wound himself.

It wouldn’t do any of them any good.

So instead he settles himself down for the night, resigning himself to yet another night spent in a light meditation to ensure his once friend and his child don’t up and leave under the cover of dark. He watches as Cirilla puts her tiny hands on Geralt’s one unwounded massive shoulder and steers him to his bedroll, her fretting over him surprising after having seen children literally run screaming from the mountain of a man in the past.

The rejection from children always bothered Geralt, Jaskier knows. It was always in his eyes- his brows stayed stoic and his gait never faltered when the children would cry and run to hide their faces in their mother’s skirts, but Jaskier always knew better. 

Heartbreak has a specific scent, and Geralt always reeked of it when he would crouch down to speak to a child and said child would cry in fear.

It’s heartwarming to see a child care so deeply for the man who throws himself headfirst into danger time and time again for people who don’t appreciate him. 

And what happens next nearly steals Jaskier’s breath away.

There, under the cover of night and only bathed in the light of the stars, Jaskier watches Geralt offer Cirilla his own bed roll, his expression more soft than Jaskier ever recalls it being in the past.

The bard watches in muted shock as the little girl scrambles into it and curls up immediately, the arrangement obviously not a new routine for the two travelers. As soon as she settles, Geralt unclasps his own cloak and uses it to cover her from the elements, the large, worn piece of fabric nearly engulfing her tiny form. 

Cirilla quickly gets comfortable and Jaskier hears her breathing even out after only a handful of minutes, her chest rising and lowering with each even breath as she sleeps off the stresses of the day.

It’s almost… sweet, the way Geralt so obviously cares for her.

Jaskier tries not to ache too badly when he sees scarred, calloused fingers gently sift through long silver blonde tresses when the child makes soft noises in her sleep.

*

“Do you regret it?”

Geralt pauses to look over at Cirilla, the whetstone in his hand still against his silver blade as her soft voice rings loudly in the silent night. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“Can’t sleep. Too worried. And you didn’t answer my question.”

A heavy sigh rushes out of Geralt before he indulges the lion cub of Cintra. “Regret what?”

Cirilla remains buried under Geralt’s cloak and her own as she worries her bottom lip between her teeth, contemplating whether or not to ask what had been important enough to wake her from her slumber.

“Becoming a witcher.”

There’s an odd look in Geralt’s eye as he studies her face for a moment before heaving a sigh and going back to sharpening his sword as best he can with a barely stitched together wound that would have most likely killed a human. The rough sound of metal on stone grates on Jaskier’s sensitive ears enough that his teeth begin to ache. “Hard to regret something you had no choice in.”

The green eyed girl seems to take that as a good enough answer, for she quickly allows the subject to drop. 

Jaskier watches her wiggle around a bit to get comfortable again as the sound of sharpening swords fills the silence once more. 

It doesn’t last long. “You were at my mother’s betrothal.” Cirilla says softly, breaking the fragile silence that had settled between them. 

That at least gets Geralt to stop dragging his whetstone against his swords and give her his full attention. “Hmm.” He hums in acknowledgement, his hesitation to speak about that fateful day clear in his posture and tone. The signs of his discomfort go unnoticed to Cirilla, who hasn’t had twenty years to study the witcher like Jaskier has. 

Tiny arms wrap themselves around Cirilla’s legs as she sits up and pulls them to her chest, sleep clearly becoming a side thought when presented with such a heavy topic. “Why did you go to the betrothal? Grandmother didn’t like witchers very much.” She whispers.

Despite the innocence of the question, Jaskier can feel himself start to sweat a bit in anticipation of Geralt’s answer. This is the perfect opportunity for him to either clam up or give a one word answer, completely glossing over the fact that he was only able to attend because he was there under the guise of Jaskier’s bodyguard. 

Jaskier, the man who traveled across the Continent at Geralt’s side for twenty years. 

Geralt opens his mouth and closes it a few times, his severe brow furrowing as he works out what he wants to say under the expectant stare of his Child Surprise.

Finally, he speaks. “I wasn’t invited.” His voice is little more than sandpaper over stone, his tone pitched low and rumbling as though it’s painful to speak about the memory. “I was attending as a bodyguard for my…” He struggles to find the right word as Cirilla waits expectantly. 

A few beats pass. Then another. Then, “My best friend.” Geralt almost whispers.

Cirilla’s brows shoot up for a moment before she manages to school herself. “Your best friend?”

“Hmm.”

“Oh,” The princess shuffles until she’s laying down on her bedroll facing toward Geralt, one hand tucked under her head to act as a pillow and the other still around her knees. She stifles a yawn into one palm before making herself comfortable. “Where are they? Can you tell me about them?”

That is clearly the last thing Geralt wants to do, if his pinched expression is anything to go by. Jaskier almost feels offended, but then the gentle breeze picks up and carries over a peculiar scent.

There, under layers of horse and Melitele knows what else, is a scent Jaskier has seldom smelled on Geralt before.

It’s a deep, earthy scent, like the ground after a bout of heavy rainfall. It smells slightly different from person to person, their own individual scents mixing in with the emotion Jaskier has caught enough whiffs of in his time as a witcher, and especially during the slaughters handed out by the Nilfgaardians, to be able to pinpoint it immediately.

Mothers who have lost their sons to battle carry it around with them like a second skin. Children who are left parentless in a world that will crush them if they don’t find a way to survive in smell of it when Jaskier passes them on the streets. Vendors give off hints of it when they have to shut their doors, their businesses not making enough to stay afloat during the war.

It’s sorrow. 

Deep, bone crushing sorrow. 

It’s strong enough to knock the wind from Jaskier’s lungs. 

Cirilla waits patiently as Geralt works to string together whatever it is he wants to say, his indulgence of Cirilla’s childlike curiosity and blatant need to hear someone’s voice to lull her back to sleep endearing. 

“We met many years ago in Posada,” Geralt begins haltingly as the blonde haired girl makes herself as comfortable on her borrowed bedroll as she can. It’s clear Geralt is trying to be as descriptive as possible for Cirilla’s sake, if the awkwardness Jaskier can see practically radiating off of him are any indication. “He walked over to me and refused to leave my side. Traveled with me for twenty years.”

Wide jade eyes regard Geralt with childlike wonder as he continues, his story chasing the nightmares from her mind and the memories of the horrors she'd witnessed, if only for a few moments. “Twenty years?” 

Geralt nods, a hint of a sad smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t know how he put up with me that long, but yes. He’s the most pompous and irritating bard on the Continent. Never listens to me when I try to keep him safe; he always has to get into trouble and wears the most outrageously unsuitable clothes for traveling.”

The wayward princess listens raptly as Geralt speaks, obviously finding comfort in his voice as her eyelids begin to droop.

“He’s annoying, talks with his mouth full, and causes more trouble than anyone I’ve ever met. But he’s… he’s kind, and brave when he has to be. The Continent wouldn't be nearly as accepting of witchers if it weren’t for him.”

“Where is he?” Cirilla asks quietly.

A few moments of silence pass between the witcher and his Child Surprise before Geralt hangs his head and heaves out a sigh that sounds as though it had been ripped from the very core of his being. 

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in years.”

Cirilla watches him sadly as she scoots herself a bit closer to the white haired man, the sound of her dragging the bedroll across the grass faint but present. “We’ll find him.” 

Geralt opens his mouth and closes it a few times before he offers a minute shake of his head, his lips curling into a snarl when the action pulls on his tender wound. “He won’t want to see me. I’ve… I’ve spent years looking for him. If he wanted to be found, he would have come stumbling back into my life by now.”

Stifling a yawn behind her hand, Cirilla scoots over in the bedroll enough to be able to rest her head on Geralt’s thigh, a determined fire burning in her eyes. “People linked by destiny always find each other.” She says as she offers a sleepy smile up at her guardian. “If youre sorry for whatever it is that happened between you two, then I’m sure he’s ready to forgive you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ho ho ho the next chapter is gonna be fun


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning comes before Jaskier is ready for it.
> 
> His eyes burn as the early sun’s rays break through the canopy and bathe his face in light. The sound of shuffling and cursing from the clearing Geralt and Cirilla are in become more and more loud the further Jaskier shakes himself from his meditative state.
> 
> The monotone crunching of Pegasus mowing down a particularly juicy patch of grass behind him throbs in time with his headache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait for this one! My dog is going to have to be put down in the next week or so, so I've been spending as much time as I can with him before he has to go. 
> 
> Please let me know if you enjoyed this chapter!

Morning comes before Jaskier is ready for it.

His eyes burn as the early sun’s rays break through the canopy and bathe his face in light. The sound of shuffling and cursing from the clearing Geralt and Cirilla are in become more and more loud the further Jaskier shakes himself from his meditative state.

The monotone crunching of Pegasus mowing down a particularly juicy patch of grass behind him throbs in time with his headache.

“Geralt,” Cirilla admonishes, “I told you we’re not going anywhere until your shoulder doesn’t look like it’s going to fall off.”

An annoyed grunt sounds from the man Jaskier knows is less than thrilled with the situation. “We’ve wasted too much time. We have to get to-”

“Kaer Morhen, I know,” Cirilla interrupts, “but moving quickly won’t do us any good if you lose a limb because of it!”

A telltale clinking of various baubles in Geralt’s packs ring out in the clearing as Jaskier pushes himself to peek beyond the foliage keeping him hidden, biting back a sigh when he sees Geralt finally cease his attempts at getting up onto Roach with his shoulder still too torn up to function.

Some things never change with that man. 

A put upon huff is all that comes from the witcher as he acquiesces to the princesses demands. Jaskier can tell Geralt is loath to waste time when they could be heading to Kaer Morhen where Yennefer is waiting for them, but waiting for his arm to heal more is the right choice.

Geralt certainly makes his displeasure clear about it as he sets his scabbard on the ground by Roach before lumbering back to his bedroll with the intent to meditate under the watchful eyes of his Child Surprise.

*

Three days later, Jaskier thinks he’s going to lose his mind.

It’s not that Geralt and Cirilla staying in one place for seventy two hours worth of time bothers him. In fact, he’s almost proud of Geralt for allowing himself to be persuaded into taking it easy as his system works through whatever venom it needs to counteract and get through to continue healing his arm. It would have taken half an army of Skelligans to force Geralt into taking it easy back when Jaskier had traveled with him; the fact that the older witcher willingly listens to the little princess is a miracle in and of itself. 

Besides, Jaskier is used to staying in one place for at least a week after the incident on the mountain, so that’s not what bothers him. 

What bothers him is the memory of Yennefer and her warning that something powerful poses a threat to Geralt, the same man who Jaskier has seen tear Wyverns from the sky and wrestle rabid Rock Trolls into submission. 

Whatever it is that the sorceress believes is strong enough to pose a challenge to someone like Geralt, Jaskier doesn’t know, but what he _does_ know is she wouldn’t stoop to asking his help if she didn’t truly believe it was needed. 

And that alone scares him more than anything.

That fear is enough to cut through the sore ache in his chest whenever he catches a glimpse of his long lost muse, the old wounds he had tried his best to close himself the past few years stinging every single time he thinks of Geralt. 

It’s enough to keep him from turning his back on Geralt like Geralt had done to him. 

Jaskier sucks in a deep breath and lets it out in one big gust, mentally cataloging the pins and needles feeling in his limbs from remaining stationary for the past few days, simply observing his lost muse and the princess work around each other until Geralt is fully healed.

His limbs beg to uncurl themselves from the cross legged position he’s kept them in for the past few hours, his muscles aching in his thighs and his bladder as he pushes himself to his feet as quietly as he can and shoulders his lute. If he leaves his spot to piss and Geralt or Cirilla somehow come across his lute, he knows his cover would be blown.

Witcher or not, even Jaskier is a slave to mother nature. 

At first he tiptoes around the limit of what he estimates Geralt’s senses reach, measuring every footfall and cursing every crunchy leaf he steps on until the realization that he’s still undetected has him moving further away to relieve himself. 

*

Jaskier feels it the moment he’s finished his business and tucked himself back into his pants. 

There’s a shift in the wind; almost imperceptible to those who aren’t animal enough to pick up on it. It’s not a certain smell or a specific sound that has Jaskier nearly tripping over himself to get back to the clearing, cover be damned. 

There’s a heavy stillness in the air that has the hair on his arms standing on end and his gut twisting something horrible. Even the birds, which were more than happy singing their colorful praises to the sun earlier, have gone completely silent as though they too sense something off in the forest. 

Something that screams danger.

 _”Fuck,”_ Jaskier spits under his breath as he crashes through the underbrush until he makes it back to where he had all but set up camp earlier, quickly assuring himself Pegasus is still tethered to the ancient oak a bit away from his spot before falling to his knees in time to peek through the bushes.

It seems the eerie feeling isn’t felt by him alone. Geralt has gone stiff where he stands by their fire pit, his nose to the air, scenting the winds and narrowing his eyes at the birds that have gone silent. 

Cirilla only picks up on the change in atmosphere when she looks up from where she’s scraping dried mud off the bottom of her cloak with her fingernails and sees Geralt’s stiff shoulders. “Geralt?” She prompts, a thread of nervousness in her voice. 

“Quiet,” Geralt hisses to Cirilla, rounding the firepit and rushing toward her in three long strides before forcing her behind him as he quickly unsheathes his silver sword with his uninjured arm, biting back a wince at the way the action tugs on his still mending flesh.

The forest around them goes silent. Not a single bird calls; the leaves barely rustle in the wind for a few beats before Geralt whips around and deflects a dagger thrown at him from his left, the clang of silver against silver echoing in the clearing.

It’s silent for a moment. Then two. 

And then, Jaskier hears it.

A heartbeat so slow it can’t possibly be human along with a scent so faint it’s barely noticeable. The sour sweet stench tickles something in his brain, almost like a memory he can’t place, and it’s as irritating as it is terrifying when he realizes whatever is coming for them, Geralt can’t fight it alone.

Like a predator waiting for the right moment to pounce, Jaskier crouches with his hand hovering inches away from the bushes in front of him and his dagger in the other, each breath carefully measured and controlled as the sound of a voice he hasn’t heard in decades rings out from the opposite end of the clearing and stops his blood cold. 

“Well, I can’t say I’m one to look a gift horse in the mouth.” A rough voice drones as an aged man comes out of the foliage where he’d evidently been hiding, the clinking of various belts and weapons sounding out clear as day with every step he takes.

Jaskeir can smell the palpable unease wafting off Cirilla, her fear so potent it stings his nose.

She has a right to be afraid.

“A witcher,” Geralt growls out as soon as he takes note of the cat medallion hanging from the newcomer’s neck and the two swords strapped to his back. 

The witcher merely sneers at Geralt, his posture deceptively open and confident despite the wear and tear on his gear, scuff marks and holes made by monsters or humans torn into hard leather and dirtying his clothes. “Were you expecting someone else?” 

Geralt doesn’t respond. His grip goes white knuckled on his silver sword and his eyes narrow as he pulls his lip back in a pseudo snarl, canines too sharp to be entirely human on display as a low growl starts in his chest. “What do you want.”

“Information. As well as… _other_ things I’m sure you can help with.” The witcher responds, unfazed by Geralt’s admittedly intimidating display as he twirls a dagger in his hand, the very picture of nonchalance. “I’m looking for someone in addition to you, you see. Someone you know very well.”

“I don’t have any information for you.” Geralt is quick to say, still not letting his guard down nor release the grip on his sword.

The witcher snorts at this. “Oh, I'm sure you do. And if you play along and tell me what I need to know, all will work itself out.”

Jaskier can barely breathe as he watches the witcher take another step toward Geralt and Cirilla, the White Wolf holding his ground and his growl growing in intensity. “Whatever it is, I don’t know, and neither does she. If you turn around and leave right now, we can forget this and you’ll keep your life.”

It’s as much a threat as it is a plea for the witcher to leave, to not have to make Geralt cut down one of his own in cold blood, but it falls on deaf ears.

“What an offer! How kind of you. Unfortunately, I can’t extend the same gift to you. As soon as you tell me where Julian is, I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me.”

At the sound of the name he’d abandoned so many years ago, Jaskier nearly reveals himself, barely catching onto his sharp gasp before it leaves his mouth. 

Even from where he’s crouched, the bard can smell the tumultuous cocktail of emotions wafting from Geralt in waves at the sound of his name. Confusion, frustration, and a faint hint of fear permeate the air around them as Geralt makes a confused grunt. 

“I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“Of course you do. How could you not know the name of the man you’ve had trailing you like a lost puppy for the better part of twenty years?”

Everything in Jaskier tells him to barrel out of the bushes and fight to protect his muse. His bones ache with the need to _protect,_ regardless of how badly Geralt wishes to never see him again.

The words ‘ _if life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands’_ echoes in his mind, and for the first time since the fateful day on the mountain, Jaskier embraces them. Takes them inside himself and allows the hurt he still feels from Geralt’s betrayal to twist into anger, and from anger to absolute fury. 

Before him is a crossroad of sorts. He can keep his identity a secret and allow Geralt to fight while injured with both his and Cirilla’s lives at stake, or he can reveal himself and throw himself at Geralt’s mercy once again when the battle is done.

Neither is a choice he feels ready to make, but there is only one clear decision.

And it’s not a hard one. 

The witcher heaves a heavy sigh. “And here I thought the famed White Wolf would know better than to try and barter with a Cat. I’ll admit, the _Toss a Coin_ song has gotten quite popular; enough to make people brave enough to approach me with contracts again.” He shakes his head before advancing toward Geralt until they’re barely ten feet apart, sharp cat eyes zeroing in on the wound still mending itself on the broader man’s body. A cheshire grin splits his face as he regards his prey. “You and the girl are not who I am after, but no matter. There’s quite a bounty on your head, White One, and this little princess will go for a barrell of gold in Nilfg-”

The crack of a dagger being hurled from out of the foliage heralds a heavy silence in its wake, the silver weapon whizzing between Geralt and the other witcher to embed itself in the tree at the other end of the clearing between the two witchers.

A beat passes. Then two. 

“Ah, seems we’re not alone.” The witcher grins as he tilts his head side to side, the sound of bones cracking echoing in the silence before the discordant twang of a lute being set on the ground within the brush sounds out. 

The first few moments of silence that follow the cat witcher’s taunt are tense. Jaskier can smell Geralt’s growing uneasiness as he comes to the realization that there’s a high probability the witcher is not his only foe.

The thought of Geralt readying himself to fight off two opponents while wounded to protect Cirilla is enough to propel Jaskier from his hiding place.

Out of the bushes strides Jaskier, his normally flamboyant and self assured gait put on for show as he walks into what he's sure will become the fight of his life, his eyes never leaving that dagger the other witcher continues to twirl in his hand, the blade glinting in the early morning light. 

“Nazak.” Jaskier begins conversationally in a deceptively cheery tone as he strolls further into the clearing, stopping momentarily to brush imaginary dust off the front of his raggy doublet before stopping in front of Geralt and his Child Surprise, his back to the two as he faces his old mentor.

Three pairs of eyes stare at him for a few beats before he hears Geralt make a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

It’s unlike anything Jaskeir has ever heard the white haired wolf witcher make in all their years together. It’s anguished; wounded, the choked quality of it making his skin itch with the urge to soothe, but it also sounds…

Relieved? 

Jaskier can’t take his eyes off the witcher with the cat medallion against his chest to parse the complexities of Geralt’s expression, but he does catch a whiff of what smells like bone deep relief mixed with utter terror and confusion coming off the older man.

His appearance visibly throws Nazak for a beat or two before he recovers and is crouching in preparation for attack, gritting his teeth at the new addition to the fray. 

Never has he had to actually go against another witcher with the intent to kill. Sure, Geralt had insisted he learn some self defense back in their early days of traveling together, but pretending to be a buffoon unable to wield a blade and actually putting himself and his skills to the test are two different things.

Decorated bard and scholar aside, Jaskier knows his former mentor is a formidable opponent.

But formidable opponent or not, Nazak is making a mistake. No matter how strong one thinks they are, going against two witchers, albeit one injured, is a foolish move.  
Especially with how malnourished and skinny Nazak looks now, his Cat armor pooling in places Jaskier remembers lean muscle used to be. 

_”Julian.”_ Nazak hisses, his weathered and scarred skin pulling tight around his eyes as he snarls at the younger witcher in disdain.

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Jaskier comments as he slowly bends down to scoop up Geralt’s forgotten steel sword from the grass by Roach’s unpacked saddlebags before rolling his shoulders to get himself used to wielding a blade once again after so long of brandishing nothing but a lute. His fingers flex along the weathered handle, feeling the cold metal dig into his palms as he judges the weapon’s weight, tossing it from hand to hand. “I don’t go by that name anymore. Haven’t for years.”

A pained sound from behind him almost has Jaskier whirling around to tend to Geralt, old instincts rearing their ugly head as he can scent the fresh blood in the air, Geralt’s deep and panicked breaths undoubtedly pulling his stitches and undoing any healing that might have happened. “Jaskier, _run,_ ” Geralt barks, “this isn’t some cuckold in a bar fight! You can’t fight a _witcher!_ ” Geralt grits out in a low tone, the terror laced plea sending goosebumps up and down the bard’s arms after not having heard the White Wolf’s voice directed at him in years. 

A stifled gasp sounds from behind the brick wall that is the White Wolf, and Jaskier barely manages to keep from turning his attention away from his old instructor to see what made the princess so surprised. 

“ _Jaskier?!”_ Cirilla gapes, her scent running sweet with relieved recognition before being replaced by terror a moment later. 

Jaskier doesn't get the chance to ask what she’s so terrified of. 

Nazak moves in a blur, much quicker than a human but not as agile as Jaskier remembers the older witcher being back when he was still in training. He takes a quick step back just in time to avoid the edge of Nazak’s blade as the silver whizzes by his face just far away enough to miss hitting skin but not to avoid the slight displacement of air as Nazak recovers and lunges a second time. 

This time Jaskier is ready, steel sword in hand and on the defensive. The clang of silver against steel rings out in the clearing as Jaskier parrys every one of his old mentor’s attacks, his limbs aching a bit at having to deflect the speed and strength in Nazak’s strikes but his body instinctively knowing the pattern of his mentor’s attacks after having trained with him for so many years. 

Despite instinctively knowing when to move and when to duck, Jaskier grits his teeth against the ache in muscles he hasn’t had to use in the better part of two decades. 

This is nothing like the friendly training Jaskier had with Geralt, nothing like the mock sparring they had engaged in when Geralt was convinced the bard needed to learn how to defend himself during the winter months. The wolf witcher was all barrell chest and bulk, using his sheer size and instructions to his advantage, whereas Nazak is lithe and deceptively muscled, though not as much as he used to be.

“Whoever put you up to this-” Jaskier begins as he parrys Nazak’s increasingly volatile attacks, slowly but surely steering Nazak away from Geralt and Cirilla while all the older man’s attention is on him, allowing Nazak to gain ground until he knows Geralt has enough space and time to react in defense of Cirilla should the other cat witcher make it past him and toward the princess. “We can talk about it. I promise to pay you more than whoever is paying you!”

A blast of Aard sends Jaskier scrambling backwards just as he manages to throw himself out of the immediate blast radius, the crackle of Chaos in the air making the hair on the back of his neck and arms stand on end as the impact shatters an old tree a few yards away from them. “ _I’ll pay you more,_ he says,” Nazak laughs. It’s an ugly, mocking laugh that sounds as though it’s been dredged up from the pit of his stomach. “Tell me, _Julian_ , how could you possibly pay me more than Deiter?”

In the midst of trying to keep himself focused on the man in front of him and not the witcher he can feel burning holes into his back with his stare, Jaskier can admit to himself that name sounds familiar. “Deiter?” The sound of it brings out a wave of anguished rage, a sensation not unlike pain lodging itself in his chest as the crooked scar across his mouth stings at the name. 

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Nazak parrots the words Jaskier had said to him moments earlier, “He’s the Lord of Kerack. Ugly fellow, hates witchers with a passion, but especially Cats of the… _mad_ variety. He has quite a history with one, you see. Humans tend to hold grudges against wichers who butcher their village.”

All at once Jaskier finds he can barely breathe. 

No spell had been cast on him to steal his breath right out of his lungs, but it might as well have for the roaring in his head is just as debilitating as a spell. “Deiter.” Jaskier whispers, the tip of his sword falling until it kisses the ground, his whole body reeling at the fact that the child he had tried to save, tried his damndest to help back when he had been younger, had hired his own mentor to come kill him. “Deiter sent you after me.” Jaskier breathes, shock loosening his body and lowering his guard. “You’re not after Geralt at all; you’re after _me_.”

“Ah ah ah, there you go making assumptions again.” Nazak tuts at Jaskier as he sends a deranged grin to the two other occupants in the clearing. “The contract was to assassinate you. Your White Wolf and the lion cub of Cintra are just… _bonuses._ ”

Jaskier can hear the pounding heartbeat of Cirilla in his ears, hear her panicked breathing as she witnesses a sight very few have ever laid eyes on and lived:

Two witchers about to fight to the death.

 _“Jaskier!”_ Geralt shouts in warning as Nazak lunges at the bard once more, the mentor and his student parrying each other’s attacks like a game of cat and mouse.

It would almost be fun if the stakes weren’t so high. 

Jaskier swears under his breath as the tip of the blade Nazak wields grazes just past his thigh, the sting of skin opening threatening to throw him head first into the bloodlust he despised feeling whenever engaged in battle.

The rumors about the School of the Cat weren’t all baseless lies, however much he wished otherwise. The rumor about their emotions being heightened certainly holds true; perhaps more for Jaskier than the others.

Jaskier, the sickly boy who was given the first round of an experimental alchemical formula during the Trial of the Grasses. Jaskier, the young child who had been told his emotions would be eradicated completely.

Jaskier, who feels more intensely than should be humanly possible.

Even back when he still trudged the Path, the sharp sensation of pain and the coppery smell of spilled blood always awakened something in him he was terrified of. 

It was… exhilarating, yes, in the same way a predator takes thrill in the hunt. He had seen other Cat witchers fight. Had seen Aiden fight- had even fought beside him, once, in their youth- but never had he seen any of the others become quite as unhinged as he did the moment they smelled blood.

And unfortunately for him, Nazak had always been handy with a blade. 

Even back during his days as a mentor, Jaskier remembers him performing tricks and maneuvers the other boys struggled to keep up with. He was a master through and through, and Jaskier is swiftly receiving an unfortunate reminder of that fact as said blade slices a gash in his side before he’s able to deflect in time. 

The blade kisses just past the beginning of the Quen shield Jaskier throws up in a rush, slicing through the Chaos and nicking his side just above his hip bone. It’s not a fatal wound by any stretch of the imagination but _fuck_ , he’d forgotten how much it hurt to get stabbed. 

The scent of spilled blood seems to rile up Nazak even more, the glint in his eyes turning manic as he throws his entire being into attacking Jaskier, putting his weight behind his attacks in an attempt to stagger the other witcher and trick him into slipping up. 

When Jaskier continues to deflect and parry, landing a few shallow hits on the older witcher, the manic grin on Nazak’s face slowly begins to morph into frustration. 

And from frustration, it turns to fury. 

“You were the best of them,” Nazak snarls, “Why did you abandon the Path when so few of us are left? Why didn’t you fight with our brothers to keep the humans from killing us off? Why have you disgraced the school so blatantly?”

Jaskier can’t help but snort disbelievingly at that as he steps back far enough to be out of reach of Nazak’s blades. “Says the man who allowed himself to be hired to kill another of our kind. Taking a contract to execute a bard, an injured witcher, and a little girl doesn't exactly scream ‘noble’, now does it?”

Jaskier sees Geralt stiffen out of the corner of his eye. 

“And besides,” Jaskier continues, “Stygga is gone. The School of the Cat is no more. Why are you trying so hard to keep it going when it’s over?”

Nazak’s face contorts into an ugly sneer. “You have no moral high ground here, _Julian._ ” Defiance burns in his catlike eyes, the same fire Jaskier remembers seeing when the older witcher would force the young boys under his guidance to do unspeakable things in the name of remaking them into emotionless killing machines. “Our home was destroyed. Our kind are few and far between, and it isn’t as though our reputation is getting better, no thanks to your fuck up in Kerack. Who can blame me for trying to survive?”

In a way, Jaskier understands. This man was the pride of the School of the Cat, revered by the younger witchers and the recruits as he trained them to become what he himself had been molded into. He wasn’t a father figure by any stretch of the imagination; he had been cold and calculating, unyielding and demanding as hordes of young boys pushed themselves to the limit of what’s humanly possible and even further beyond that.

To the ones who survived the Trials, he was the closest thing to stability they had. To those who hadn’t made it… well, Nazak had never paid them any mind.

Yet he was the man who bought a poor, sickly child who surely would have died a painful death under the negligent attitude of his parents and given him a purpose, however gruesome it may have been.

Jaskier understands. Everything Nazak had based his life around had been destroyed, taken from him and then given the moniker of an assassin and treated as less than the other witchers simply because of where he came from. 

Because of what he is.

Yet that’s the difference between them. Jaskier remade himself, shed who he was forced to be and put away his swords for a life he yearned for so fiercely that he was willing to take the chance of being caught and executed for leaving the Path. 

Nazak simply succumbed to his emotions. He became the basis of what every rumor about the School of the Cat is about.

“Have you ever gone back for your siblings? For your parents who sold you like cattle?” Nazak spits, trying to taunt Jaskier into charging him as the two circle one another like two alley cats in a territorial dispute, neither willing to make the first move nor give up ground to the other. “You dare call yourself a man when you left your sister to be sold to a brothel and your brother to die on the frontlines?”

Jaskier doesn’t respond. His stare is cold as ice as he regards the man who made him into what he is, what he’s always struggled to come to terms with. Flashes of Gretka’s bright smile and Aegon’s teasing grin pass through his mind’s eye as rage bubbles just under his skin, hot and all consuming and _too much._

If Nazak wants a fight…

Well. Jaskier has never been one to turn down a request from his mentor.

Nazak barely manages to cross his arms in the Heliotrope sign before Jaskier descends upon him, fury singing in his veins and the knowledge of what is at stake if he fails fueling his strikes.

The elder witcher visibly stumbles under the force and speed of Jaskier’s strikes, clearly not having expected Jaskier to be so swift after all the years he’d spent away from the Path. The bard is a blur of furious motion; Nazak can barely throw up Quen shields in time before they’re shattered, Jaskier dancing around the perimeter of the shattered orange shards of Chaos, toying with his superior until a blast of Aard sends him skittering back a few paces, breathing hard and side stinging where he’d been nicked earlier.

The pain only fuels his rage, a bloodlust Jaskier has spent centuries running from begging to be let out as his mind slowly toes the line between human and beast. A snarl rips its way from Jaskier’s throat as Nazak winds his arm back and throws his dagger past Jaskier and toward Geralt with all his might, the manic gleam in his eyes sparkling as the blade looks as though it’s going to make it past Jaskier and imbed itself in the White Wolf.

The dagger never lands.

Agony courses through Jaskier’s veins as he throws his arm out to the side to catch the dagger mid air, the silver blade slicing into his palm and the calluses on his fingers as he catches it blade first before whipping it to the side of the clearing with a snarl, his blood splattering the crushed dandelions under their feet as he goes on the offensive once more. 

“Julian-” Nazak gets cut off when Jaskier manages to hit him in the chest with a well placed blast of Aard, the telekinetic blast winding Nazak and sending him to the ground to land on his back. The sick sound of bones breaking rings out in the clearing, but Jaskier pays it no mind.

Like an animal, Jaskier is on him before the elder witcher has time to regain his bearings, bodily pinning the larger man to the dirt and snarling in his face. “I’m not Julian and _you will not touch him.”_

The previously gleeful look slips off Nazak’s face as Jaskier’s uninjured hand forms the Igni sign and hovers his palm an inch or two above the elder witcher’s face, giving Nazak barely a second to comprehend what’s about to happen before there’s nothing but _fire._

The smell of burning flesh isn’t one Jaskier is unaccustomed to. It’s unpleasant; wrong and smoky and horrid, yet the agonized screams of Nazak as his face takes the brunt of a blast of Igni will forever echo in Jaskier’s mind long after the man below him stops thrashing. 

Nothing but a low, pitiful gurgle comes from the body still twitching between Jaskier’s thighs, the flesh of Nazak’s face bubbling where it hasn’t been completely burned off. What were once sharp golden cat eyes are now cavernous holes in a charred face, the organs not having survived the blast of fire.

Adrenaline fueled rage still sings in Jaskier’s veins despite his prey in his grasp. The urge to tear into his victim and toy with the pieces is almost too strong; the overwhelming desire to make sure his prey doesn’t escape nearly incapacitates him, but Jaskier is quick to snatch the steel sword he’d dropped when he threw himself at Nazak, the handle of the blade warm from the leftover heat in his palm.

Despite the contract the man had taken, Nazak does not deserve to suffer. He does not deserve to be toyed with and tortured, no matter how badly Jaskier’s limbs itch to cover the clearing in blood.

Not a word leaves Jaskier’s mouth as he leans back, still straddling Nazak’s waist as he positions the tip of Geralt’s steel sword at Nazak’s jugular.

The blade slides smoothly into Nazak’s throat and out the back of his skull, the blade kissing the earth beneath his head for a moment before Jaskier pulls it out. The squelch the steel makes as it leaves the finishing blow and the few seconds of choked gurgling from the elder witcher makes Jaskier’s stomach churn.

For a few moments there’s nothing but silence. The birds don’t resume their singing, still wary of a predator in their vicinity. Not even the leaves rustle in the stray breeze that rolls through. The only sound Jaskier can hear is the pumping of blood in his ears as he comes down from his bloodlust and sees what he’s done.

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier keeps his back to Geralt and Cirilla for another moment as he heaves for breath over the lifeless body of his mentor, the overwhelming scent of copper and burning flesh in the air making his stomach roll even as the voice in his head begs him to _spill more blood, it’s not enough, this whole forest could be painted in red._

He had just slaughtered one of his own kind; one who had changed the course of his life forever.

Sucking in a few deep breaths to get his head to stop spinning, Jaskier allows the low timbre of his long lost muse’s voice to wash over him one last time before everything inevitably falls apart. 

He thought his heart had been shattered on King Niedamir’s Mountain. Had barely recovered from it, in fact, and here he is about to go through the same heartbreak.

This time, surely, it will kill him.

“Jaskier, _please._

At that, Jaskier finally pushes himself onto shaky legs and turns around.

Geralt’s pale skin is even more ashen than usual, almost giving off the aura of someone who’s long since been buried six feet under rather than someone alive. Dark purple bags hang under exhausted golden eyes, a testament to the sleepless nights Geralt had clearly suffered through to end up looking like a dead man walking. Jaskier can smell the beginnings of infection on him this close up. The Swallow made on an obvious budget had not done its job the way it was supposed to, the witcher’s body attempting to mend a wound too large to deal with on its own without assistance. 

Jaskier has to open and close his mouth a few times before he can get any words out. _“Geralt.”_

The single utterance of his name seems to suck all the life out of the white haired man, his large body slumping to his knees before thick forearms brace himself on the grass below, lest he fall down face first.

 _“Geralt!”_ Cirilla cries out, dropping to her knees beside her guardian, her hands fluttering desperately around his shaking form in her inability to assist him. 

“Don’t-” Geralt whispers to the blades of soft grass under his hands, unable to lift his head to look Jaskier in the eye as he begins to lose consciousness, the strain of healing the deep wound and having witnessed what he just had too much on his body. “Please don’t go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope none of you saw this coming, haha. Truth be told, I really couldn't wait to write this chapter. RIP Nazak. Also please let me know if I made any mistakes; I'm really not used to writing fight scenes so this chapter was very hard for me. I hope it came out alright haha. 
> 
> Please let me know if you enjoyed the chapter and thank you so much for reading! Have an awesome week :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading and I hope you all have a good day! Please let me know if you catch any mistakes lol


End file.
